Clint Eastwood or Bust

by Jonathan Luczkowiak

I ponder how it felt,
for Kerouac to set sail across the states.
to end at the end of manifest destiny.  The west coast
promises of easy living, bountiful wine and crop,
and even unrelenting sunshine.
The Joads sought a better life in Bakersfield.
I seek one too.  Mine though,
less for sustenance and more for abundance.
I think myself a fool, that the west
will please me in all I desire.  From stories,
I think of people making fictions in Hollywood.
The prettiest people of rural Dakota and Oklahoma
scraping together pennies and favors
for the golden greyhound ticket to the City of Angels.
A brawn drain of the Midwest.
Hopes so high with chances so low
of placing their hands in the wet cement
before Grauman's Chinese theater.  I imagine
eating in an LA diner a tenuous ordeal.
Failed actors pestering vacationing patrons
for the Terminator turkey wrap
or the License to Thrill grilled hamburger.
While I sit there, waiting to be served
my 2001 A Space Odyssey Spaghetti,
with a Wonderbread roll and a single serving
of margarine on the side.  I ponder,
yes maybe I too desire what they do,
an easy life, without caution and care.
But thoughts like these are much to bear,
while watching a blond haired Omaha child
spill a tray of Diet Coke on two out-of-towners.
Is the West truly all it promises,
or is life filled everywhere
with the good, the bad,
and the ugly?