Madroad driving men ahead–the mad road, lonely, leaning around the bend into the openings of space towards the horizon Wasatch snows promised us the vision of the west, spine heights at the world’s end, coast of blue Pacif-ic starry night–nobone half-banana moons sloping in the tangled night sky, the torments of great formations in the mist, the huddled invisible insect in the car racing onward, illuminate–The raw cut, the drag, the butte, the star, the draw, the sunflower in the grass–orangebutted west lands of Arcadia, forlorn sands of the isolate earth, dewy expo-sures to infinity in black space, home of the rattlesnake and the gopher–the level of the world, low and flat: the charg-ing restless mute unvoiced road keening in a seizure of tar-paulin power into the route, fabulous plots of landowners in green unexpecteds, ditches by the side of the road, as I look. From here to Elko along the level of this pin parallel to telephone poles I can see a bug playing in the hot sun–swush, hitch yourself a ride beyond the fastest freight train, beat-ing the smoke, find the thighs, spend the shiney, throw the shroud, kiss the morning star in the morning glass–madroad driving men ahead. Pencil traceries of our faintest wish in the travel of the horizon merged, nosey cloud obfusks above the streams of C.B.Q–serried Little Missouri rocks haunt the badlands, harsh dry brown fields roll in the moonlight with the shiny cow’s ass, telephone poles toothpick time, “dot-ting immensity” the crazed voyageur of the lone automobile presses forth his eager insignificance in the noseplates and licenses into the vast promise of life. Drain your basins in old Ohio and the Indian and the Illini plains, bring your Big Muddy rivers thru Kansas and the mudlands, Yellowstone in the frozen North, punch lake holes in Florida and L.A., raise your cities in the white plain, cast your mountains up, bedawze the west, bedight the west with brave hedge-row cliffs rising to Promethean heights and fame–plant your prisons in the basic of the Utah moon–nudge Canadian grop-ing lands that end in Arctic bays, purl your Mexican rib-neck, America–we’re going home, going home...
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