The roads are not even
in the journey
to other cities,
other countries,
other memories.
The unpaved land
is all over the place,
its contours that of
an ugly face with crooks
and crannies looking
like foxholes in a desert
where war is fought
each dire moment.
We trip some of the time
to remind us of
the need to fall
on the wayside.
We remember the wound,
on the knee as on the spirit,
and the sorrow we keep
in our pockets.
It has to be.
There are no sweet
and holy angels
on the road.
There are no mothers,
there are no medicine men
to give us the dirty bandage
but these robbers and cheats
who sell our copious tears
to those who believe
in instant miracles.
Today you feel betrayed
by it all, by all these
these lessons in double deception
that can only come
from highway thieves.
They are not the road makers
but those who gather around
manholes ready to push you deeper
and deeper into the crevices of journeys
of the last searching self.
Hon, HI
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