Real America

I went for a drive in Real America looking for God,
And I found no blessed sign, no answer, no doctrine—
Only the long black-dirt stretches of fields,
Their wombs freshly scraped of their natural work,
Cold and miserable, forgotten and useless.
I made the turn on a narrow swath of asphalt leading to infinity,
to my Grandmother’s earthly resting place—
The natural, wheat grass mausoleum removed from the world’s worry.
I melted into the weeds and burs of the ground in front of her headstone,
Aware of nothing but the arthropod metropolis electrifying the earth underneath my forearms.
I watched them swim in and out of sight,
Wondering how they exist without remorse and reasoning. Envious even.
The chorus of wind sounding through the sallow leaves of an old oak tree kept me company.
I’m too tired to wonder. I’m too tired for prayer.
“Fuck you, God. Fuck you for this,” I said.
But my lamentations were drowned out by the gentle rage of air flowing against my back.
The sun was warm on my legs and I felt like a sulky, self-driven sacrifice to the Creator of all things, from cigarettes to truth.
The world is cold and lonely, a veritable junk yard of darkness and cancer and regret and curse words.
This is the gift of reasoning.
This is the curse of consciousness.
And I let myself be nothing but grass and granite and wind, and suddenly felt myself as still as the bones beneath.
It’s better this way,
To be burned to ash with no more room for thought.