abandoned garage over on River road.
In a left alone box…I keep the sacred thoughts.
In an upholstered chair from 1972, all velour and static, covered in snow.
That is where make-believe takes a seat.
It is where poetry goes.
Around about, midday, most days, when the sun quenches the sky.
I take time out to visit a graveyard Sage made of stone and bone.
To amend the playful wrongs…make them…right.
Everyday…a fortunate spirit on an infinite flight.
“If we took all the poets and banded them together. Could problems arise or self-solve?”
Lyricists to our own plights…Could prose set a tilted world right?
“What of my yet undocumented pain? Would my own words make me sane?”
‘It is always something’…I heard a philosophical schizophrenic say.
“What if we all banded together today?”
Through a lens,
nothing but a small town voyeur.
An inclement, practitioner, seeking a cure.
If raw or edgy could suffice.
I suppose there would be a way to sleep away the night.
Indeed it is the dark side of an allergy that watches for more.
Mine is not a sexual exercise.
Mine is being witness to the other side.
The broken down by time.
Mine is baring witness to unwritten signs.