once, the roads all lay
wide open before us,
turning in hundreds of
different directions,
taking people on magical journeys
to numberless destinations,
along magnificent trails
of gorgeous scenery
yes, there were always
a few dead ends, here and there, but
one could always
turn around
you could backtrack,
without experiencing
too much anxiety
over lost time
you’d happen upon
interesting choices,
unmarked intersections,
where there was
no signage
to help you navigate
your way
it was all
up to you
choose your own adventure,
twist-a-plot, flip a coin,
“eeny, meanie, miney, moe;
my mother told me this way…
and you… are… not… it”
and so, you’d set down a path,
with guesses, hopes, and fears,
but no real way of knowing
what was up ahead
it was all an exciting gamble
you might meet your death
but, you might find treasure,
fame, or perhaps,
unravel a mystery
“once there was a way
to get back homeward.”
see? Paul knew the deal.
but now,
the roads have all
narrowed
many of them,
if not most,
are blocked off |||||
completely impassible
storms have knocked down trees,
barring the way
some roads are blocked by protesters
many streets are just
too full of potholes
you can’t drive down them without
wrecking your vehicle
all the roads,
even the dirt ones,
are littered with toll booths,
every half a mile
insane fees extracted like teeth
the “protection money”
extortions of gangsters
looks like chump change
in comparison;
third-graders,
threatening to beat you up
for your milk money
half the available highways
have fallen too far into disrepair;
you can’t walk down them,
for fear of stepping in a hole,
breaking your ankle
of the remaining roads,
those still open and drivable,
the traffic is maddening
each thoroughfare
congested with vehicles,
all belching exhaust, and
piloted by madmen,
caught up in the throes of
full blown road rage
too many cars,
even though the travelers
on all of these roads
already know…
there’s nothing
at the end
of any of these highways;
nothing they’d actually want,
anyway
the obsession is no longer
“where are we going?”
it’s now
“how long can we keep driving,
before we run out of gas?”
we no longer worry about
how long it will take us
to get there, because
we know…
there’s nowhere to go
now, we just try to lose ourselves
in the experience of the drive,
desperately trying to forget
why we ever got into the vehicle
in the first place
we no longer
ask ourselves why we
even have a vehicle
such questions would only
cause us to think about
what is at the end of these
endless roundabouts, and
dirt paths, running through
fruitless orchards,
as far as the eye can see
asphalt and concrete
conveyor belts,
mindlessly herding us
through the turnstiles
and metal guide-rails
of urban slaughterhouses
what was so important?
that we had to build these
heartless machines?
pay all these tolls?
deal with all these
crazy people,
rudely plowing ahead
in all these ugly boxes?
and, more importantly,
if whatever it was…
isn’t even there,
anymore…
then,
why the hell
are we still
out here?
why are we
still on
these
tacky footpaths,
made of gauche steppingstones,
leading only to the madhouses
these dry, dead riverbeds
where five out of every ten tankers
are beached, or rudderless
three more of them are sinking
and one more has been pulled over,
by the police
only one out of every ten vessels
on our peculiar, asphalt rivers
is in good working condition,
and sailing on nicely
and, even that one
still lacks any sense of
where it’s headed
what fever is this,
that overtakes us,
compelling us to pursue these
godforsaken
freeways
of the damned
infinite trails of
tamed wilderness
that lead to
absolutely
nowhere
©2024 Kevin Trent Boswell
The music and poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell
Kevin Trent Boswell 