Frost was wrong. It's not
about the road not taken;
it's about the parade unmet,
the paradise unspoken.
It's about John Ford
on the mesa with
a long lens, shooting
John Wayne and Claude
Jarman Jr., horses
at full gallop. It's about
butterfly dreams and
Bukowski on the bar
stool in Reno, spinning
tales for some blonde
in a leather jacket.
It's about peanuts
and applejack, and
Chief Bender taking
the ball in the ninth
against the Yankees.
It's an Americana
romp with a racing
stripe, a pendulum
on the down low,
Chicago and the last
block, the Slovak
section of Cleveland
bleeding copper,
where we lay the brick
and quit trying to pretend
we were tired and
lofted the Schlitz, killed
the pig, prayed hard
to the Lord of the Flies,
and to the Jersey nights
and said hello to the
reality of the pimps
on Van Houten Ave
and the pledge of
allegiance and to
the sorry realization
we'd never cross the
Mississippi River again
standing on two feet.
