I’m way up the highest Colorado and instead of trying to tell it all and failing I’m going into a bit of reprint.

This is a chapbook cycle of poems, to be posted in sections, called

schoolbus hotflee lavawave (77N)

0.

as more years go
Won’t matter if you find out the casita lay in SandRock on railroad street …
still, later
none at all of these shyly hid facts will matter

to anyone except my hagiographers, of whom the certain
# = 0.

I.

from this temporary navel
head east which is really north
out to the signs that offer GASjewelry spelled just like’at.
It’s a drive for work; but windshield time about the Work itself.

Long ago, it was just an exit like any other,
a random stop for DIESELcoffee, although it
was particularly memorable because they had
hot tubs in the back, and we used them.

Now the place is local to I and you
so I know the local rumors of it.
The main one being that the dickweed manager
will fire you from it, if he suspects you are queer.

… Head north for real now on the road itself, behold
a land sacred to none, unless and until
you’re a rancher named Bill. You got your wash
called Leroux, neither red much nor French a’tall.

Lately you’ve got your potash corporate rabbitshit
compound dusty chainlink outpost. And the first
of two mileposts numbered 404—for certain,
there is no page to be found here, until this one now.

Fourth Wall; Warsh. Compound. The signs, sure.
Look hard enough and there are many things.
But of the many things the most important 1
is the Nothing.

25 Jan 16, MM 395