The road less traveled
for a reason.
My whole life
walked a fine line between
Joan of Arc and Don Quixote.
Somebody always trying to
light a fire under me.
and then there is all
that ass. And windmills whirling.
Road strewn with liquor bottles,
bombs bursting in air.
Costumes left behind
like last year’s leaves.
Boss won’t hear truth,
well, fuck him.
So much sex, so many drugs,
the rock and roll so loud.
You weren’t even in a band.
The journey just a quest
for yourself.
Mowing a cross-country trail on my Oregon farm. 1992 maybe.