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Roughing It

I want to quit my day job and search for truth, justice, and American ways, still making it home in time for dinner. Build up my immune system so vagrant winds friend or foe, kin to isolation and destination know, my intentions are purely honorable, and I am a man of my word. I want to go away— loner, drifter, starry-eyed stowaway surveying beaten paths and railroad tracks in white shoes after Labor Day. Spring forward fall back, acoustic guitars the soundtrack. Throw my polka dot bindle over my shoulder housing Walcott’s Fortunate Traveler and Kerouac’s road trip premise, and send me off unselfishly, with a subtle nod and a third-person omniscient kiss. I’ll sojourn in front of country barber shops perched on wooden crates drinking soda pop from glass bottles becoming one with my new community. And stay late into the night, sipping moonshine under crescent moons shooting the breeze with locals as if I belong like ancient ruins knowing I must leave soon, American ways, American ways, American ways… I want to take bites out of slices of Americana, ingesting Bohemia and relevance, bypassing excess and decadence, running sticks across neglected picket fences befriending Less Than Average Joes and authentic John Does not concerned with the Jones’s, who fled from counterculture long ago. I want to know, how to move, to movements. I want to become the impulse and audibility of Dylan lyrics, round campfires whose embers resemble spirits paying homage to beatnik pioneers who dared question the mainstream values of Western Civilization, via spiritual, sexual, and social liberation, “…the best minds, of his, generation…” I want to live as the wayfarer transcendental, nomad existential, waking up on soil with sleep in eyelashes in the form of nonconformity, byproducts of large chunks of epiphany, riding freight trains jaunty legs haplessly dangling from boxcars giving the finger to preconceived notions, conventional wisdom, and negative connotations, hitchhiking across the land hand in hand with cardio pulmonary resuscitation, breathing life, into life. I want to search for truth, justice, and American ways, still making it home in time for dinner. And when I grow weary, and my calloused feet decide the street has shared more than I deserve to know, I’ll retreat in the direction to the home I used to call, place. I want to be Sal Paradise— sitting on a hill, under tiered skies, smoking a cigarette…overlooking the world.

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About Daniel Romo

Author of When Kerosene's Involved (Mojave River Press, 2014) and Romancing Gravity (Silver Birch Press, 2013). I'm partial to prose poems. Alliteration. And fragments.

5 responses »

  1. one of my favorites . you’re good romo

    Reply
  2. Stripes perhaps…?

    Reply
  3. me, too.

    (except for maybe the polka-dot bindle…)

    Reply

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