conversing inside gas pump-stop


impoverished-open roads leading to the oblivious

all smash converge at once,

someplace upstairs,

where actual mountains of water,

oceans of land

comprising northern states

bestow upon the lower regions

a deluge of balance

“where you goin this time, stranger?”

“how can you tell I’m leavin?”

“no can disclose, Mr. Jones”

in these parts

in these times,

the FBI asks my friends

to be their friends

survivors,

believers in the enchanted ‘60s,

will remember all those strange stories,

we believers listened

heard it all, nodding,

yet continued building bridges

stretching into the '70

and continuing on

“hi there, brother, got any new ideas?”

“as a matter of fact, yes, and thanks for noticing”

“well, these NY mountains taught me easy”

“then let’s all celebrate those colors”

“got any suggestions?”

“ummmm…how bout praising water…?”

“why water?”

“well, we are!”

“yes! thanks for reminding me!”

“thanks for tuning in!”

" and hey, we can always keep riding

that old dirt road

all the way to White Lake

5/15/73