we are travelers in motion
playing banjo and hopping trains
headed from nowhere to nowhere
lusting for a higher purpose
away from this mediocre town
in this substandard state.

staring down the sun
like gunslingers,
squinty-eyed,
name calling,
spitting in the
dusty streets
and pulling iron
ready to draw.

there are cracks
in the sidewalks
outside convenient stores,
that look like new routes
on the way to terminus

sifting through
the mountains
and the valleys,
across the rivers
and over the bridges,
down the scattered
highways where the
bums are dying in
the forsaken streets
of crumbling castles

the tractors causing
unnecessary traffic
in wide open spaces
of the rural areas,

midwestern farmers
plant rows upon rows
of corn and the one
firework shop stands
alone surrounded by
nothing for miles
all around it

the sky shows its reflection
in the buoyant lake like a
mirror looking back at its
own idea of itself,

horses gallop freely
at grazing ranches,

endless journey’s
through the cold nights
of the desert wastelands
and the stars shine through
like pinholes in the intergalactic cloth
that keep the hyenas away from laughing
and viciously attaching the reinvigorating
green muse that communicates without
the use of words and shows us the way....

under which tree shall we lay?

not even our
reinvention
is an inviolate

but we not tulips
you could easily
pluck from the
moistened soil,
we are dandelions,
deep rooted in the
hard concrete

and we will
overcome and flourish
to find ebullience

like pieces that fell to Earth.