It’s all schtick. All the body numbing mental gymnastics are but a prelude. The show hasn’t started yet. The orchestra is warming up, while we create bucket lists. Anything can happen under this clear sky. Aesthetic concerns are principal, jargon of all the dead gods. And we decipher our god-like profiles with an ear to the ground. We follow the well worn path, not venturing a step into the darkness of the woods. To drink from the spring of knowledge, first we must muck our way in. Profiles in darkness are the quiet stories we pass on to the next generation without warning. We man the fire watch tower and wait for smoke. We are raising the oceans by the day and praying for flood relief. Clear water a distant past. The open road has become an air conditioned stage screen. We check off the destinations. There is a sense of getting there by making good time. But at roads end the place is found to resemble another place. All the malls are the same one. We must shop nonetheless. We build a legacy of store bought things stacked up to the top of our ceilings. Is there any place for love? And our memories are slowly descending into a pool of dust. There is no god to be found. Perhaps he is at the foot of the rainbow. At the end of the road the Buddha sits next to a muddy ditch. Sisyphus pushes a boulder up the man made hill. We are each hiding our poems, clues to our location. Each night we go to sleep on a precipice.
In the end we arrive at the beginning. A long journey. In the end we add up incidents of life. All the things which are a life are stacked to the moon. It’s all comedy with no laugh track. It’s all air conditioning. It’s all Disneyland and we are the Mouseketeers. It’s a flat tire.
The open road promises an unkept future. The horizon is within arms reach. Orchards stand unpicked with trees spread like fingers. Hog farms, chickens and goats dot the roadside with pungent refrain. The site seers fill their cups, drink up the attractions. There will surely be a sunset. We could die right here, but no, we will trod the graves. Stone monuments will be raised and prayers murmured. We strive to instill new tradition, as we wash the dirt from our hands.
E. Charles Rolwing III 