To engage fully in some futile activity
Along with all the braying hordes we pilgrimage to the magic places
Driving, drinking, demanding and defecating
Snapping memories at safe and well-marked backdrops
Then hopping back inside to drive on for another few more years
And, baby, it all amounts to just as much as simply pounding sand
At those very special points of interest, where nature spoke to a
great soul so long ago
Thousands more now walk and snack, litter, laugh and urinate
They are pounding sand and moving empty holes, from one place to
another
Ticking off itinerary items on rushed side trips towards a mindful
fulfillment
Following the signs to littered scenic overlooks to snap the memories
of a lifetime
Hurrying in the footsteps of long gone inhabitants and explorers
Experiencing another artificially cultured revelation before
returning to the car
Driving what seems like way out into the quiet and empty backcountry
and finding safe crowds
Returning safely as the snacks run low and the kid’s boredom grows
They think briefly of the deep meaning here, that they read of in the
shiny brochure
Stalwart adventurers with electric generators
Taking matching 40’ RVs on a million identical voyages of
self-discovery
Pounding sand but pissing blood, as it happens, and it seems, way too
soon
Stripped of all dignity and grace by their very own swarming numbers
Unappreciated sights disappearing in their unused rearview mirrors
Like some vast post-modernist zen poultry operation
Flipping the remote with one hand and clapping with the other
Keeping the sound of no sound safely muted
By the pointless cackling and the idle strutting of the lamed
Preserving only the illusion until it’s too late to grasp anything
else at all
Pounding sand and shouting until we grow quite hoarse and still
Pointless microscopic sparks in one ever-expanding and darkening
universe
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