The Land of Tis For Naught

Highway 66 goes out there, its black stretch wavering in the noonday heat.

Geese and tortoise take the shortest route and cross--
the rest have not the imagination to do otherwise but follow its length,
one redundant mile after another, all the way to the end of the West.

The West ends at a truck stop in Corona del la Mare.
It’s a place where lemon trees grow by the highways,

and you can reach up to pick one anytime you want.

Truckers’ banter wafting on the warm breezes from the San Fernando Valley mingle with the hiss and grind of tractor trailers coming to rest in parallel diagonal rows. So here we must leave, Roland. It’s the end of our journey, not yours. There’s nothing for it but to roll your eyes to blue heaven, the one now permanently above.

Though you may have a nagging feeling you could have made better use of your wishes, they’ve all come true. As Alladin once found, one should never try to outsmart a genie. I who have made it my life’s study to identify and record sounds produced within the body can vouch that even the belly of a genie will sometimes lie. We are lucky after all to have our greatest feats of strength deemed in the nature of a wish and in sum...

much wishful thinking.

I content myself with counting the off-beats of your heart,

one to one one thousand, ten to ten one thousand,

before handing the stethoscope to my master, the doctor.