These yellow sun-bleached weeds bend with the wind as I sit here perched, ascetic-like upon my bulky tramp pack, posited off on the side of a freeway off-ramp in the shade of a rumbling overpass. My spirit is consumed, wholly entranced by the crescendoing roar of late afternoon traffic. Grimy hands hold out a dirty cardboard sign that declares to all my state of poverty, imploring them to show pity and be charitable-- eagerly awaiting the next generous handout while inwardly praying for the final arrival of sweet oblivion. This beard of mine has reached the Moses state; my hair resembles that of John the Baptist when he returned from the trials of the wilderness. The stillness which possesses me as I idle here, amidst the arrhythmic pulse of traffic, must be what the ascetics must have felt-- Wooden rice bowls cusped within their wizened beggars hands, frail bodies strewn about the Buddha palm fields of ancient India. This is what the fates have finally reduced me to; yet the arduous path I've traveled has taught me to endure the elements along with my misfortune, while waiting patiently for the things I seek to find their way to me rather than wasting strength chasing after them in vain. Zen shall be realized when I behold the awestruck 'n contorted face of a yuppie as he observes me drinking the same over-priced mocha latte he does while basking in the glow of my wifi-enabled laptop. Fuck him with his judgments. Fuck this sick land with its deathly aura and accurst Indian graveyards-- skeletal remains of the greedy cannibalism of capitalism. Fuck you who looks down on me with eyes of condescension; when Rome falls you'll be consumed and enslaved while I'll finally be redeemed and set free.