Sanity Beneath the Questionable

There once were
Disparate nomads of intelligence;
Kerouac of grass roots highways,
Miller of international boulevards,
Many loners seeking solace for their discomfort
By bushwhacking through yesterday’s lexicons,
Whether beneath low slung concrete buildings
With neon festering invitations of vacancy,
Or sidewalk cafés of isolation,
Beneath Eiffel Tower backgrounds,
Cow pasture reality needing to be told,
Or cosmopolitan epiphanies needing consideration.

Both wore stripes of truth.

Their truth.

Mattering not of acceptance.

One frequented cabins,
Rooms,
Motels,
Dingy bathrooms of mold-layered tile,
Creature infested rugs,
Threadbare sheets to lie on,
To love on,
To Be as one with road-tar smells,
Diesel fumes spewing,
Rumbling trucks passing
While all the while
Furiously filling page after page of
Pencil scratched impressions and insight.

The other, thousands of miles away,
Sees life similar but different.
Espresso stained napkins with passionate words
Destined for banning in America,
Even while knowing exile of mind
Feels no borders.

Honest chronicles of life
Being freely expressed
Before the time homogenized sterility took hold,
Where one's convictions became massaged,
Hacked,
Sliced,
Hijacked,
And if published,
Marketed as mainstream mediocrity.

How different this road today;
Dot com global highways,
A flattened world
Presented on monitors
By claimants of any and all importance
Hunched over keyboards
Spewing shorthand distraction
Or longhand confusion
With some viable exceptions.

Voice actuation.

Phantom keys.

Touch screen execution.

As if...

We stand forewarned,
As the earth is brought to us,
We no longer seek It
Where once pencil and paper witnessed visceral experience,
Now easily accessed through delusion's virtual reality
Just a credit card away.

Perhaps there is need,
Maybe even a desperation unknown
To read some personal tenets uncompromised,
Even if not yours or my creed,
And just for a few moments,
Allow the senses to dream of books again,
Because if some of us are lucky,
If we lean close to the pages,
Allow the whoosh of the mundane to recede,
We just might smell the tires on blacktop,
Hear the Gendarme whistles,
Smell rising croissants.

We might even hear a pencil scratching on yellow lined paper,
See yesterday’s ghost-like swirl of blurred syntax on coffee-soaked napkins,
Realize the quiet echoing of honesty
Fused with the recycled air of love and passion,
Inhaled and exhaled ever so humbly,
Creating a hovering presence
Where someone's tenacious veracity,
Like that of the "Cosmological Eye"
Or "On the Road,"
Might find grounding.

 
Step out the door with notebook and pen
And start down the road to…

Anywhere that life is conscious.