The Idiot 

I moved along the road
Until it died
Under my feet

I stood there
Like Dostoevsky’s Idiot
But I was not a prince
Of any kind

I sat down to consider
Ramifications
The gold mine
Was blank

So strange

Silence is never true
The hum in the air
The movement
Of crazed electrons
Out of control

Leaving me to wonder
What I was
Who I had been
And what

I would become

There was no meaning
Yet the weight
Was gone

I kicked
At the pavement
Waiting for it
To resurrect
Anticipating breath

Lazarus renewed
But I am not Jesus
And the road remained

In death

I couldn’t feel remorse
There was no final scene
An embrace
Lovers reunited

Trite
Cliché
Contrived

There would be
None of it

I grabbed my bag
And walked through
The desert heat

Sweat dripping
From my armpits
My brow
My mind

I walked into
A dilapidated store
Old route 66
A sad and broken sign
Hanging by
A rusted nail

An endless ghost world
I wondered
If Jack and Neal
Would pull up in a 46 Old’s
Cloud of eerie dust

He looked at me
From behind the counter
Suspicious eyes
Behind aviators
Working a toothpick
Feverishly

“Whacha want?”

I stammered
And asked for Marlboros

“What else?”

I asked him
If he had any fresh hot coffee
He peered at me
Over gold wire rims

“It’s 110 outside
You some kinda idiot?”

I grinned and nodded
Like the fool

I really am