Those were some days.
Bridled by dappled sunlight on wild horses running
by clam diggers who wade in opal ocean where we started
New World, Nation, Future-Forward, racked with promise,
stream-promise and paths to North-South-East-West-promise.
Yes West! Beyond the bridge, blue meadow and mountains
shrouded – on arrival – in a gray primordial ooze, so in morning
you wake up somewhere different than where you started
by a soda pop machine that sings into the fog.
Gold-green hills rolling with car and cloud, old men
in black & white photos carry shotguns and the sky;
the sky really is a big sky, which means nothing til
you see Big Sky. YOU – because it is you, in a car, with me,
or maybe it’s just me. I dunno what I’m saying anyway.
I guess I’m talking about both of us.
The strangeness of rooms and their keepers!
Sticky mustard-colored carpet and a plastic stallion under the sign.
(Were the horses on the hill fake all along, and does it matter if they were?)
Imagine someday you find
something in one of those cheap pressboard bedside tables.
You stay home and miss the green Buick. You dance a little longer
and never meet the pretty brunette in the spinning green dress.
The white and purple crags try to reach God,
but it turns out to be just another bumpy ceiling
of a rented room.