Chalice of Revelation

Afternoon, an omelette and lemonade. Here I sit
at the gates of heaven's light, watched over by
a mural forecasting mutated natural wild doom,
a mire and blood of funky apocalypse. Everywhere abounds
the pornography of despair, turning wheels, hazmat sigils,
barking epiphanies of desolation. Here I sit, failing
at Zen, lost to my epiphanies, nothing to do with the zeitgeist.
Rejection is a kind of affirmation. Humming wires,
a line of chihuahuan crows pecking at white sand grubs.
Even the lizards are lost to blindness. White light, white land.
Shoes off, white sand in whorls of toes pressed dry to dessicated
earth. Long walk up dune and down. Where's my shirt? Evaporated.
Telephone spine power poles line in retreat along the roadside
to infinity. Classic Western iconic highway. Open sky, two crumbled
black lanes, fading paint yellow line down center, bright hot dirt
on either side, line of telephone poles converging at infinity
with the road edge itself. All things converge beyond view,
in longer distances. That merciless light. Watched over doomed
by dead Indians. That long glance. As laconic as a fence line,
barbed wire keeping you out of malpais where you never
wanted to go anyway. Fence lines insignificant
under an infinity of sky, heaven, cloud, glare.
Black land, black glare. Butt sore from hours of driving,
sneezing at powdered road dust, thoughts turning at dusk
towards lonely forevers, it's hard not to get existential.
As if there was any point to this road anyway.
Zen of driving a long humming highway is a pillow of soil.
Don't try to figure it out. Just go. White light, black road.
Why this chalice of revelations, broken across sand lap of light.