a river of asphalt
through the heart of California
runs from the dry plateau of the
Mojave to the Canadian border
it’s headwater flows from a desperate desert of dwellings
thrown up against the ravages of the world
real and perceived assaults to the dirty stucco
where nature hangs on in the spaces between
fast food and drive through windows
commerce and nature fight to an apparent draw
until the vastness engulfs all the merchantry
leaving it scattered and lost in the landscape
of broken walls and rusted trucks melting
back into the strata and joshua trees
Jesus radio shouts out
a hallucination of a white
bearded man in spiffy wingtips
and Madison Avenue tie
suspended over the parched landscape
like cloud of certainty in an
uncertain landscape
preaching prosperity is yours
if you send us your money
a holy quid pro quo evoked hourly
between quotes from the old book of myths and delusions
It zooms by raising the curtain
on the painted lands
mountains now thrusting up
to the west to the east
through the long valley
once verdant but long ago sucked
dry by the mega metropolis
at the end of the pipe
lunch stop in Lone Pine
mining gold to fund the Civil War
where now motels and restaurants
wait for the road to feed them
a waitress named Rachel
tells tales of her
Shoshone roots of her
grandmother four generations ago
who moved the tribe to Death Valley
to find a life away from
the relentless push of the white devils
in their frenzy of genocide
as California waged its war of
native extinction with their maps of deceit
her grandmother and her sister
fought for Indian lands
stolen by settlers and protected by
government bounties on scalps
they appealed for justice to the United Nations
who ruled in their favor
and ordered the US government
to return stolen lands
and honor endlessly broken treaties
lies in ink never honored
the ruling ignored by the government
to this day
as we dine by the highway
of shattered dreams and blood of generations
we weep inside as we smile
and extend our hands In peace
she is radiant in her forgiveness
we press on to Manzanar
the bones of the WWII Internment camp
spirits of Japanese Americans
still imprisoned against
the grand Sierras
on the rock and scrub of the alluvial plain
a lone crow standing sentinel on the
monument to atrocity watching over history
in a black mourning suit
the speedometer pushes us
back through geologic time
past old bristlecones and ancient jumbled
hills of lava spread randomly like
tossed dice that some forgotten peak
vomited in flames onto the plains
some alone some in formations of
porous blackness frozen for now
until the plates suck them under again
melting them back into the hot womb deep in the mother
we see the bounty paid on Indian scalps
In the real view and try to
avert our gaze but it persists
and we think about her beautiful hair
that somehow survived the journey
to the reservation and now this restaurant
where she serves us
all bowing to great Whitney above
the road eats time
warping it to whatever end
we have imagined summoned by
the dance of the shaman around the fire
to the magical granite and pine
the waters of Yosemite
where they stole the valley and lake
from Chief Tenaya and marched him
in chains out of his sacred land
where fishermen now leave beer cans
and butts on the granite sands
his ghost covering them in snow
baptizing them in their journey
his guiding helpful hands
lift climbers up the granite faces
where moccasins once silently tread
others worship the sacred meadows and valleys
in homage to our common thread
and the imperative that we be who we really are:
the trees the mountains the water
we are the critters and winds the walls of granite
the stars in our veins sparkling in the indigo sky
everyone sees the disaster ahead
just around the bend
except for maybe some bikers
in fleets of chrome and denim
confidently pressing on
in unmuffled squadrons of defiance
we will not conform
unless it’s to black leather and gasoline
onward to the beauty
of discovery of what we know
prosperity is a concept overrated
by those who have none
but it puts us on the highway
of water wars and land grabs after the Indians
have moved on to gaudy casinos
their revenge now scalping gamblers
lifting dollars from the plunderers and their progeny
Titty bar and Jesus bless this bet
on the future
the road presses onto the heights
the mountains growing even taller
jutting up out of the valley thrusting
verdantly endless forests into the sky
taking us to where
we stole the lands we now revere
from the people we erased from the maps
this all happening in the 80 mph
blast from the past to the present
and on to our uncertain future
which we find is just another speed trap
in the time warp of life
as our past deeds come to life
in the fast lane
our true nature trying to catch up