Pulled into Juiz de Fora just before sundown.
Motorcycle cowboy again.
Like days of old.
But it’s different somehow now.
After Narcisa everything is different.
Like the guy who swallowed the Red Pill in The Matrix.
Things will never be the same.
Why did Cigano cross the road?
Good or bad. It is what it is.
Open road, wide skies.
Rolling freight train.
Wistle blowing.
Rolling by
outside the ancient hotel window by the station now.
Minas Gerais. History. Mystery.
The Freemason Lodge looms large just down the street.
Don’t get me started.
How many lifetimes to build this crippled matrix of lies and dreams?
Tomorrow fix the bike and back on the road.
Cold. Long. Lonely. Inevitable.
Rolling on another 300 kilometers up to Belo Horizonte.
What’s at the end of the long long road?
More road, to be sure.
Just for today, I’m on it.
categories :
poetry
by admin on May 23, 2009