“I have no ambitions these days”
your thumb says, pointing its way
across America in a postcard sent by email;
discarding tool of the future for fang of the past.
Kerouac never wrote about the ticks in Arkansas
or mosquitoes in Missouri-- or his bed and
job waiting for him at home.
hunted, haunted you’re off again,
following the scent of exhaust
on superhighways teeming with herds of automobiles,
ghosts of mechanical bison.

Roaming this continent in search of
promises of a frontier
that is all that’s left to comfort you;
Michigan, Chi-Town, N’Orleans,
Seattle, Tucson, Frisco—
places that exist now in Beatnik Romance,
Hobo Tales and Stories of the Wild Wild West
that crumble away as you roll into town;
fearing flight but always ready to run
shedding pelt and snatching chickens
each hitch more strenuous, each hike more desperate,
an aesthetic gnawing at you
dead animal instinct
a wolf who takes his meals from dumpsters,
hoping to sink teeth into something wild, untouched,
watching motorized buffalo on I-94
hunger for dreams already devoured.