Lonesome highway blues,
itchy eyes . . . aching head,
steel guitar honky-tonk AM,
. . .  an all night run.

Interstate 80 west, 
open full moon road,
the creative life blood, 
soother of my soul.

She was sitting on a bench 
at the last rest stop before Wyoming emptiness 
in her paisley gypsy hippie dress, 
blond dreadlocks hanging free to a waist slender and taut.

Her eyes betrayed longing sadness only the poet could suffer.

‘A ride Mister?’ she asked without spoken words.

Her backpack and soul 
fell into my rickety van
urgently asleep on a mattress 
from a late night dumpster
in my last night of confinement 
before the reaper came again.

On Medicine Bow Peak 
I dropped a sacred crystal
into the empty cairn . . . 
an offering to mountain gods.

She smiled approval when she kissed me peace.

An eagle circled above.

Prayer flags fluttered in silent air.

Who were we then?
When did we begin?
Why did we worry?
Where did we end?

It was nothing.
It was everything.
It was our life.
It was our death.

Why did we go?
Why did we wander?
Why did we starve?
Why were we naked?

Who knows?
Who cares?
Who wants?
Who needs?

Is it all bullshit?
Is it all truth?
Is it all fantasy?
Is anything real?

The desert of life?
The rhythm of song?
The slither of a snake?
The empty ocean?

Nowhere to go.
Nowhere to be.
Nobody listens.
Nobody answers.