300 lbs

I find it no small miracle
the force of will
incomprehensible
what some people do
tolerate
to
keep
on
kicking.

Sometimes the knowledge that there is no point
is almost enough on its own
to sell me on giving up
this lonely charade.

To add onto that
rolls of fat
decaying limbs
failing minds
screaming kids
monotony
or any of the other traps
holes
pitfalls
that seem to spring up
on most everyone else.

I can only sit and marvel.

The will.
tenacity.
steady
steady
resolve.

Above all else,
this one thing
gives me hope.

flying home.

from the air
mexico.

rivers of mud, like lost cousins of the missisippi,
winding through the carpeted mountains,
tumbling out slowly through the mists of the years.
the jungle unfurled for as long as the eyes can see,
clouds tickling the toes of heaven,
and the rainbows dropping from time to time
into the living canopy below,
the endless shimmering streams
of gay unicorn gods' urine,
pissing into the toilet of the world...

then interrupted by
the cities that stretch on like los angeles,
only here the shanties replace galleries,
and there are farms on the outskirts,
only a few of these converted to resorts,
golf courses...

highways chasing rivers and crests,
marked by towns of just a few thousand souls,
obscured by the trees,
maybe unnoticeable,
maybe left alone,
families still around,
even after all this,
maybe the hallucination has not permeated the rio grande.

occasional solitary shacks,
high on a peak, or deep in the fertile, green valleys,
and again
even further north
in the red desert,
in the haze of red dust,
barely visible,
horizon obscured
in the brown cloud
of earths passing,
feet stomping,
cars tearing out of angry yards.
through this hovering dank halo
that bridges the gap
between heaven and earth,
even on the bare bones,
stripped naked rock,
there is again the lonely hovel,
dusty trail snaking
from the highways
from the cities.

these lonely places intrigued me the most,
these cultures of one
seeking perfection,
standing all day
in the blazing sun
glaring holy god
as their only companion,
and all that is ever needed
in finding that light
was to step away from everywhere
to one of these thousand little nowheres,
to be from there
away
and into
and drowning in solitude
unprotected,
unsure,
as if there was any other way to find god in this earth,
except scrapping for the smallest handlhold,
savoring the slightest whisps,
years spent
in nothing of consequence
to the teeming masses
in the towns,
pueblos,
cities,
in the valleys,
downstream.

these lost old homesteads,
that seemingly so easily would fall back to dust with the passing of their keepers,
i watch them roll underneath,
and wonder only,
if are they the end of the roads
or the beginnings...

adios.