Go West (work in progress)

Seventy-five, stoned,
on the Sunday-night highway.
Bright Eyes and Quasi-sentimental taillights, trailing...

Go west, go west.
You have seen and lain upon
the shores of the East:

warmed internally by their sands' radiant heat
(and yet chilled, still,
by the alienating memoryscape

of waves overfrozen, making for a moon-landing
of an afternoon stroll
[craggy and barren are these imagined hills:

floes, which-- through no
internal will of their own--
may soon

calve and fall away, crumbling into the unforgiving
waves, though ever do they remain
alien, and still]),

and warmed as well by the burgeoning swells
and spumes of effervescent joy:
roiling, carumbling, brought

about by the countless encounters--
moments of singular love, supreme--
themselves, so like the

unaccountable grains of sand
adorning the shore of
one of the Greats.

Go west. Go west.

Regain what was lost,
push farther, go
past that very-middle, that

cumbersome ballast
(deadweight of non-committal, treasonous
wafflings: middle-ground,

middle-of-the-road,
mismanaged feelings-- onto the back burner,
hastily pushed) which ties the heart

to an early, watery rest.
Push past, go further,
go West.

Find again that hard-won solitude,
"sun-age" as the Spaniards
and their descendants might profess;

again, find that loneliness.

Onward, to (perhaps)
wander the high desert, to
find that heart-center

(newness with each pump, each
depletion of blood),
to find again your breath...

God, perhaps, or nature more likely.
The self, mayhaps.
Truth, definitely.

That hard-won solitude.
Communion with everything.
Keep going.

Go West.
Go West.

For your love was lain low in the East.