Saturday -first draft, 1 reread

Curves and turns, twisting through mountain roads in upright modernity, small orange, almost box on four wheels the four of us, upright, crammed inside, burrito stench, breath trapped in glass, as we cross through Spain in America, handed down, occupied by the grown children of grown children of grown children, books, politics, theoretical thoughts fly through the air with memories of the last time, in the last life with that last lady, while with another lady, further through the American Spain into nowhere, remnants populated with passerby’s all traveling to nowhere in modernity, following paths followed by two legs on four legs, to remnants then modernity, of worship, conquest, the passing of information, now passed in cables and air, then where we are now, where our orange box on four wheels brought the four of us, to the remnants of information passed by two legs on four legs with swords, spears, dogs and guns to the houses where god was claimed to be the provider of information passed on by men selected to pass on selected by god to pass on information from men said to be selected by god who have given information to pass on to be said to have come from god. Across oceans, up rivers, through mesa’s and dry arid dust bowls of miles of nothing and everything fighting to be the fittest, to survive, from heavens through the sky across oceans up rivers across dirt dust and wind the with swords, slaves, trade, buildings amongst snakes they stood in a land far from their own, to pass on the word of god, in modernity, among the remnants of the word of gods travels across oceans, through deserts, up rivers, to men of other languages, men who’s gods spoke other languages, the remnants, roofless towers of dried mud, squared and stacked and stood, standing longer then the men and their information brought across oceans and up rivers, still standing in nowhere, once somewhere, but still Spain in America.

Starbucks cups amongst stacked dried squares of mud once used to claim territories for countries far from where we are now, from where I am now, from where my trash, my remnants of this morning’s consumption, lays among the remnants of many centuries old conquistadors, far from where they came from, far from where they are now. I am where they were far from them now, on a countries land, far from the country it is now. As she walks amongst us, me and the remnants, as they walk amongst us on the foreign soil of our home land, are our thoughts foreign to the soil. Does the soil remember the thoughts that were built among it by men from soil far from the soil they built upon. Were they foreign, were they thoughtless, did the soil recognize them, did it care, did the soil pick and choose, knowing who the natives were, or as the soil travels through the wind, did the soil believe the men did to, those who claimed the moving soil, stating it was here, did they blow through the wind as the soil did. Did the soil they claimed, move on, believing an American Spain was where it blew to as it landed miles away. Is Spain outstretched through miles of America, is Spain outstretched to the oceans that break on the Shores of America, did the soil of Spain in America blow to the ocean and rock away in the waves to Spain, did the soil have any reason to believe the men did not blow through the wind. D id the men blow through the wind like the soil but with words and swords and spears and dogs, boats, ships, horses, cars, planes, trains, bombs and rhetoric, are we all just blowing through the wind pausing long enough to believe we are doing something different. When we return to the soil we will blow through the wind as we always have, as our words have, as our memories have, as our conquests have, our bombs have, bullets have, hate has, love has, loneliness has, fear has, homelessness, wealth riches and gluttony, prayers and urine, sweat and sleep, these remnants stand, what is left, after what has left has blown through the wind and what stands blows through the wind as we blow through the wind upright, in upright boxes believing we are not blowing along with the wind, along with the soil.