Do they got a 57 Chevy in the yard?
Do they remember 8 tracks?
Do they say their Hail Mary’s?
Do they fear their environment?
Have they heard of sit-ins’ and Negros to the back?
Have they seen the needle in the spoon?
Stranger, stranger, where have you been?
Should I trust you?
What are the sacraments?
Will we both, continue to pretend, friend?
At the ledge of reason, the edge of holding onto ‘the grudge.’
Of course, I am off course.
With every step a labored, misty, breath.
In the corners of never-land, I hear other survivors.
The grudge is not alone.
Each one speaking…
I do not know much but where misery goes,,,
the Grudge will also be.
Mine is a patchwork by design…
somewhat disabling when first found out.
Chapped by the elements.
Poignant and blunt when kind.
I do not own the craggy roads…
hold what I conceive.
Hiding my disillusionment in every frost heave…
to avoid all the cracks.
Drifting snow has me lost in thought
Meandering in the knee-high clouds that are on the ground.
Stray collies wander as if they know more than just joy.
There need be no aim.
There need to be no trail blazed.
Purity can be a maze.
Purity can amaze.
Running in and out and about the tundra with no task at hand.
The morning sun bears no walls.
Its violet rays showing no loyalty to rhyme or reason.
I could only hope to be so bold…
not caring one way or another how the seasons unfold.
To glow or not with nothing to lose.