There are endless fields
that seemingly span
forever,
covered in a blanket of gold,
Pastures patched
around in rows spread
about
beside the road,
Great hills in the distance
are the breasts of California,
pouting toward the skies,
their brassiere tits perked poutward,
Down this ribbon,
vacant houses, wells,
powerlines bare
as the oil swells drawing
out black honey,
Motorcyclists roar by-
some spooned like lovers,
this kid tries to grab a bike
in the middle of the highway
an invitation to die,
Crosses in a single row
form one great line,
a single thread connecting each,
The moon of the afternoon
is as big as Texas,
that silver dollar shining
over Nevada mountains,
People have spat out undesirables,
leather seating
and
U.S. Maps,
all to get to California.
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