For Momentary Academic

Because she asked me to:


And into the black heart of the Mesa we rode at dusk and believed only in ourselves and only in our home and only in our women. We should not have.
When we shot through the clouds of lingering all day rain washing the rocks clean of first dust, and then clays, and then finally the silica broken free of its bonds to be transported away to the sea. Never the night to us or through us could travel a hundred mile highway of youth and golden copper youthful sun, burnished skin and ridiculous energetic smiles. We owned the land and we owned the sea that had once been and would be again.

And when we leapt out into the desert at midnight and into the mire
with
engine railing and wheel spinning.

When we tested our selves
and our machines and our endless supply of nerve
did we find in ourselves
the possibility of legend and the depth of our soul
into the night and
without restraint.

When we finally proved to you and to me that we
were braver than a machine
could be strong, but our will, the will to live
through the cold clear
adamantine night with thousand pointing glinting
stars, was strong and stable
and we were strong to walk and not faint, and
when the mud had not overtaken our
boots, yours soft brown boots for working
on the earth and mine black and waxed
for working into the earth, did we not
grow weary?

In the last sprinting freedom of our last glory night, we
lost the van into
the mud but found a story to tell.

And when we screamed down low over the Sangre de Cristos, the redded banks of earth, the blood of the Christ, heading south into the land of red and burgundy ground and brown golden people to retrieve your foil, your Alejandra, we were alone in a world adrift with the follies of young men such as we. Sensible things may have occurred to us about the night and day of highway running and the shotgun father waiting for you with words and lead, but we knew better than to say. When we poached of the land its bounty in years gone by we knew better than to question the legend as it formed and the story as it was breathing in our chests. When we would live on and on past the days of passionate youthful blissful rage, past the days of boundless energy to attempt the inane and impossible, we knew.

And when we knew.
We knew not to question or change the universe as we
unfolded it into a thousand morning stars.

We knew to leave the
story to be told and to let it happen.
Every
last and terrible thing
we did, and terrible women that
happened, we
knew. we knew to let the
creation continue and not to stay
our hand on
the lathe
of every man
creatures cosmos, the right to
determine how the
story
unfolds.

And thank you, Brother.