On the Greyhound Vegas-Bound

I’m writing a poem for you
Or at least trying
As I sit on this Greyhound bus and watch an elderly woman read Watchtower
And an aged hippy scribble into a composition book
He’s writing in blue, and I keep catching his green eyes as I shift in my seat

And I’m thinking this is poetry
Or at least some a series of vignettes to dissect and then piece together later on

Girls taking pictures with their pink phones
Overweight, tattooed men snoring rhythmically
And dreadlocked hippies jotting down words on inked paper
As desert landscapes—tumbleweeds and cacti and seas of sand to drown in—skate past

For a $60 car ride, I can know life
For a $60 car ride, I can catch glimpses of truth

They say good writers know characters when they see them
And I start to wonder what dirt cakes his shoes
And whether he writes of some deep truth
Of the lonely souls he stumbles upon in his Birkenstocks
Or if he simply sketches New Age philosophy

The Earth breathes our existence, they say
And the truth we seek dances beyond the stars
Beyond the Holy Scriptures scraped into stone

The dreadlocks hint at rebellion
But I wouldn’t be strong enough to join him
Because I have the heart of an idealist, but not the anger or indignation

I want us to be kindred
I want him to a be a writer
I want him to complete—maybe
Or shock---maybe
Or tell me that there is something more to life than cactus needles that choke the life out of me
That I deserve a new death in order to embrace our new life

I want so many things, they say
I want love that forgets conditions
Agape, Saint Paul named it; the only valid kind
I want a lover that brushes the hair out of my eyes
Whispering poetry to me in hushed tones
I want governments founded on love
Tolstoy manifest and the Sermon on the Mount
And I want memories tainted with promise
Sweet and bitter and maybe ours
And I want you
So very much

And I want to be a poet
With my scuffed converse sneakers
And my piano fingers
And my lined eyes
Telling you words that you’ll treasure
Telling you words you’ll remember

But I am not a poet
And this isn’t really poetry
And you will never love me
No, you will never love me


I’ve been questioning my own theory about what environments produce poetry. Vegas is dry and barren and suffocates creativity. My veins feel as if they’ve been bled, my senses assaulted with blinking lights and cultural insomnia. Vegas is hyperbolic. Vegas is residual. Vegas is unappetizing. Because my skin feels uncomfortable there, and not in the good way. Because my father is the only reason I go.
But I wrote this while there. Or while en route.
I wrote something else, too. But it’s still a baby. A fetus, even.

Also, I’m in love with this song. Really quite infatuated.


God knows our lonely souls. 


Unkle. “Lonely Souls.” Psyence Fiction. Mo’Wax, 1998. CD.