Highway 40 (going)
Finally,
the illusion
of freedom,
another renewal
of heart, of electricity
of the mind, neon colors
dancing behind the iris
and over
the evolving land
Finally,
another state
of convincing content
maintain the stretching
and shrinking shadows
over this landscape:
The winding veins
of America, a highway
stretching from west to east;
Flat rolling prairies with
their symphony of birds
and yellow grass rustling with
the sighs
of travel;
Little buildings popping up,
sheltered toilets and soda fountains,
nourishment for the blood
flowing through
these veins;
Brown and green signs
on either side
of our track marks
reminding us
that there is
such a thing
as somewhere
though, finally,
we are
where
we really are
Call it the road
or the way
or a dream
lost in the pages
of an unwritten diary
Call it the soul
of youth
searching, not settling,
but searching
perpetually
for settlement,
Call it the echoing of voices
from the walls
of an Arizona cave,
carried through the avenues of Albuquerque,
across the plains of North Texas,
and from there,
who knows?
This beautiful illusion,
that is life-
to solidify reality
would be a peace,
a quick peace,
a surrender
to silence,
But to fight,
dissect
the collage of noise
and color
is a long battle,
which we
can win
if we just
keep going
The Visitors Book
Listen:
The silence speaks
with a voice like thunder
lightning lambs electrifying neutrality
and every other
self-constructed image
tagged
on the wall
of silence, that ages old
visitors book
passing between hands and
in-between lands,
the words aren’t sounds
so much as sights and feelings
and memories projected
on the wall
of silence
Listen:
The conversation rolls like
rapids,
a distorted collage of
newspaper clippings,
solidified garbage decomposing neutrality
and whatever else
was left out
of the story,
the story tagged
on a wall in Nashville or New Orleans,
tales of ancient footsteps
now buried
bellow the wall
of silence
the steps aren’t movements
so much as words,
as sound images
tagged
on the wall
of silence
Sunburn
And it burns,
it kind of hurts sometimes
when we look at the sun
for answers, why and how
and then
the only answer we get is
pain
the pain we get
from asking
with our eyes
when the eyes are ears
are hands
are deep breaths
of understanding
the pain we get
is the obvious
to which we are oblivious
and that is why
it hurts,
it kind of burns me to think
that we are right up there
and blind in the wake
of infinite growth
but our eyes stay to the ground
and our hands at our sides
why?
why does it pain me so
to look to the sun
not with curiosity
but with thanks?
only to feel
the shuddering withdrawl
of ink blots dancing
back up into
the closing lids
of my eyes
from which we were born
we can never
return the love
we must settle
with the brutal hand
of guidance
and accept it
blindly
enjoy the burn
Our Atlas-Bible
We’re facing west again
as the beginning of it all
fades at the cross
and our veins pump our blood south
two white lines
in repetition
forever
One mad delusion
spanning the compass
one hand
washes the other
from the sky spicket
bearing the blood
red wine, while the hungry teeth
on our hands are so eager
to taste the madness
taste the smog
and the vapor trails instead,
eat the apple
with the serpent
still stuck inside
and look towards
the other end
with brand new eyes
perhaps there is some imprint
of that ghost
still crucified on the flowers
we picked that afternoon
in the east
Even one year later
the colors persist
an unbreakable daisy chain
blocking out the sun,
that sweet sugary white mass
dispensing water and life,
clouded
for generations to come
But we breathe it
all in,
the sweetness,
the apple,
the projected and
colorful vapor
of the awoken eye,
the shadow of that ghost
still persists
in the dried stems of
the dead flower still
sleeping ignorantly
in that vase, that old
whiskey bottle, that fresh
reminder that this vessel
was built
for a different sea
and we hung from the stem
with the vines holding our eyes
pointing to the west,
the pressure
built up in our veins,
the pull of gravity,
the fool of magnetism,
with such we danced
to the south,
the glum disappearing
like eyes of a hurricane
leaving a trail of fallen
notes of the sun
bleeding to death
on the ground
Jesus Christ,
what does it all mean?
the shifting of the moon,
the rotating of the stars,
the marching of the sun,
the falling of the cross….
Seven swastikas made of rotting wood,
minus one,
minus the twisted plot
to turn the beating of
our hearts
into a stabbing motion
wake up and
feel the pain
sucking pleasure
from the bone,
wake up
facing west,
facing
home
facing the crucifix
of the day
wake up
and say
goodnight
tomorrow is
a new day
Highway 10 (coming)
And as the sun set down
the heavens, placing infinity
at our toes
like a carpet of thorns
and dry sand,
we did tread light footed,
hugging the mountains
as much
as we could
in just two dimensions
(the to and the from,
The light coming
from the dark,
all singing and dancing
on the same stage)
the scene popped out
of the book
from which these letters
we torn,
two colors in 3D
and damn the rest
of the spectrum,
damn the dimensions
of this highway in Texas,
hugging the barbs on the wire,
sending whats left
of these pages
back west
and we caught heaven rising
again
over California,
seen in limbo
through two lenses-
the east and the west-
where somewhere
the highway ends,
the dimensions fall flat,
and the heavens are
still
on earth
Sam Burks is from the San Francisco Bay Area and can be reached at srburks@gmail.com
