Road Tune

I look for America on the road in my gear jamming past. Softened by love, with the top down, thru a million stars in a velvet night sky I cartwheel across heaven.

Townes plays on the box – a drunken wavering real-country baritone.

Under a torn creosote bush in a desert draw; across island-dotted, sun-spangled straits; in a yellow grass marsh edged with blue water and sky; hidden beneath the cracked glass photo of the long gone farm; in the sweat of a mud-spattered cyclist; last seen in a vivid pink Camillia blossom –

is the truth – scared and crying, her dress torn.

I drive into the ruined capitol. There are Nazi’s here –  jack-booted and threatening. They check credentials, spread confusion – hold lies true. Our self-evident truths are quaint and obsolete in the face of their relentless pursuit of wealth and power. The sky over the city is smudged with smoke, the water for sale, the earth blasted, the river trashed. Bombs burst, and in the red glare of rockets fascist lemmings rush to armageddon.

I spin the truck away, look in the rear view mirror at the glow and the crumbling walls, head for the out back, for Marfa. They’re building in Marfa. Putting their hands in the dirt, their tools to leather, paint to canvas, peppers in chile. They distill their own whisky, brew their own beer, build their own barrels, grow their own, play wooden music. They dance the fandango in Marfa, eat too-big burritos, get veggies at Turnip Greens, string lights from live oaks. They fall in love in Marfa, ride bikes and horses, celebrate the sunset, laugh with the sunrise.

In Marfa, bold as love, I give my life to the rainbow Dawn.

Offshore, the wax melts, wings disintegrate and there is a tiny splash.

Dawn

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