Pulling off onto Holiday Hill…
Looking for sophistication…still.
What to find without pills for the mind?
Bald mountains with white caps.
Shuttered Mom and Pop motels afraid of winter’s snow.
Deadpan trail cops, uncertain with authority.
Cabins for the fancy people.
Camps for the basics.
Time flies by on the tails of…risk-taking fowl.
Oh, memory be kind.
Now that I give myself away.
Had the perception been just a habit…
Would all my images just been another picture?
Am I an open container in a small town?
Unpacking packages of sight…some worn…some run down.
There is no sentence that can free me from the scene.
A sense of urgency…concealed by cemented intimacy.
Almost as though, I had arrived at just the right time.
My small town photographed in the mind.
Flea Market snowshoes had been my last hope. And, I knew well enough, falling up would be easier to achieve than down.
Both being a natural achievement that comes with little sound.
Still! There had been an organic urge.
The kind set within a pit. Lit up. Flamed and encouraged.
All of the elements wound itself…in a curiosity, I would not purge.
I began to walk upon frozen picnic tables, brutish mountain waters.
And, varying unearthly objects of a similar kind.
Nothing more than…raw, risky behavior by design.
Shallow is the heartbeat that rages a distended river.
Darkened and hearkened, by space and time.
A silence to the mossy flow.
And, weathered innocence the only true forgiver.
Amidst the cool watery breath.
Laps of a sauntering solitude…
Await a crested wake.
Pockets of hushed calm within the raging river.
Weathered innocence the only true forgiver.