We stopped what we were doing
and went down west.
Outdoors marching among the steel or within
the wooden cities – we prayed escape,
while running to big trucks of green,
two-seater furnace runners
and American steel.
Gone and rid of papers, pushing men aside and
grasping hands for adventure.
Young women with pocketbook poems
and cheap guitars follow.
Laying awake in tunes of voice and
among the feminist
Lay Lady Lay, kick off your boots and unroll your
Dispense my prize.
Two hours near and twenty minutes there –
hardly satisfaction nor tight of tunnel.
Fires yonder, our group and friends.
We played map board strategies
with futures and bought pound
to continue our
infinite circle puffs.
We still had glitter from wasted LP grinds.
Nobody could have told us different; our band
of Youngs and Jims. Where are we
snatched in time.
We are stolen souls still seeking fires of life.
Hey guy in green and motor head truck grease.
Red haired Anglo wait for me.
Gone. Invisible faces who took
to the road.
2012 Barry Comer