He had been on the road for a while
trekking from city unknown to city unknown
in a cloud of dust kicked up
by a Greyhound bus
he used a different name in every city
he wasn't a criminal,
but he was on the run,
he simply enjoyed anonymity
enjoyed being everybody's imaginary friend
He took magic mushrooms in Richmond
and rode the image of his grand spiritual quest
like a drug induced steed,
rode it straight to San Jose
where he met some migrant workers
who drank cheap mescal
beneath the stars of the dead pan landscape
wasters of the great American wasteland
and in New Mexico city
he was given a tab of acid
which dissolved under his tongue
in an explosion of hypnotic torture
his life reflected as a visage
as hallucinogenic as the walls which rippled all around him,
Portland was ******* and oxy pills
his humanity stretched tight like a drum
ready to snap at any given stimuli
he made it to California
dreams of LA
he became addicted to the limelight,
pretty hipster chicks who were foolish enough
to sleep with him,
simply because he introduced himself as a writer,
simply because he could work the word,
and he settled in San Diego
where the whiskey poured freely
and the *** was enough to blow your ******* head off,
in a small one room apartment
where the rent was cheap,
he drank and smoked himself in a stupor
with the windows open -
enjoying the soft pacific breeze which washed him of his sins
he had been all over his forced continent
looking for a place to call home,
but he never found what he was looking for,
and with grit and determination
and a hunger for the freedom of the American dream
he packed up again,
and left for the road,
a thief in the all encompassing night