The genius came in 1923, when the Conference of the Americas decided to name the barely there route from Dos Loredos on the Tex-Mex border to Santiago, Chile, as The Pan-American Highway. A show of soft-hands, a container full of signposts, an updated map and suddenly the continent was united. Genius. But until it's used to cross borders, it's just a theory. The road stays still, it's the travelers that move, and the actions of these travelers, commercial and recreational, on two wheels or 10, on donkeys and bicycles, that make this highway truly international. Praxis. And the poetry? Maybe that's in these travelers, when they stare down into their futures, back into their pasts, and almost, sort of, realize their role, kinda understand that until it's traveled, this road is no more than ink on a map, notes on a score, words on a page, that need to be felt, whistled, read into life. "I didn't realize you wrote such bloody awful poetry."