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 and 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 beggars hands and 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 and contorted face of a yuppie as he looks at me-- drinking the same over-prices mocha latte he does while basking in the glow of my wifi-enabled laptop Fuck him with his judgements. 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 getting consumed and enslaved while I'll finally be redeemed and set free.