pilaging goes on (reading Allen Ginsberg recently)

The freeway faster loud
exhaust pilaging

goes on. Pilaging like
taking a more cautious man’s eyes and turning them down in a speeding wake,
eyes that look on billboards of Corona life perfected
only feet from that cautious man’s daily treading back and forth
between labor and release, labor and flickering images of blue
at night, in many many windows,
private windows, fridgerators humming all,
toilets sighing all after the midnight peeing blank
stares into the inevitability of well timed alarms
forcing cars back onto the highways.

Treadmill running goes more subtly
than the disappearance of laughter
after the last drunken joke in a bar before dispersals.

More subtle than the half empty feeling of every place
with alcohol and t.v.'s and ambiance, to say nothing
of the servers who mostly smile and will ask for requests.

More subtle than poems written about ladies
with extended left arms out drivers’ windows holding
cigarettes in the traffic of the 405 South on a Friday.

Such ingress and egress cannot be healthy
when the beaches charge twelve dollars for parking,
the city meters empty on weekends, lawn mowers
now every day of the week pushed by hispanics
with tennis shoes stained grean.

The western man is going places in planes
and cars, less on trains, we mean

to run away only to return towards
what can not really ever be taken as ours.

The farmer's skin black or dark
stands in the tomato feilds
between Bakersfeild and Fresno.

The trucks take their loads grean piled
toward many places across the earth
all of which named Albertson's, Stater Brothers', Von's, Ralph's.