Half Mast

It appears, as of late, as though, we are always at half mast.

Everyone flying without wings.

Bank robbers without banks.

Cowboys and Indians without a hero.

Nowhere zones for nobody.

The local inconvenient-mart surrounded by splintered beings.

There is no glorified banner of right or wrong…

Good or evil.

Just a setting in which…desolation can dwell.

Peace on earth; a cup of twice brewed coffee…

weak and watery.

The middle of the road…lawless without castles.

Pieces of titled heaven in a used car lot.

Vetted veterans to the unknown wars…

no glory, no banner.

Just a holiday savings at the state liquor store.

Alas, no morals are left for the majority tours…of duty.

Daily helping hands down at the pantry.

Empty church pews guarded by rock star sentries.

Left on their own for fruitless searches.

To unearth nowhere places with placid deserters.

 

Candor and Cotton Candy…

fringetown 13

Coming into town

Up over the hill

the church

the steeple

the broken neon

and

stolen spokes.

Checks and balances that bounce and float.

At the edge of the road in Fringe-town…

a poetic slippery slope.

Across to the west side

the damaged pavement

next to the Tar Factory…

the Opera house

the food pantry.

Helping Hands and bake goods for sale

under the shadow of all things stale.

Lest I forget…

the surrounding sound igniting life…

in Fringe-town.

The hustle of dump trucks

the lyrical sound of crushing metal and rust.

The nondescript noise of used strife.

Fringe-town…

requiem of a dream

‘hanging on to hanging on to letting go.’

This town has miles of sense of…

nowhere left to go.

In the middle of the road

on the edge of nowhere…

the tombstone table tops

the Sunday Mass

with the Father…

holier than thou in back alley talks.

The taste of candor and cotton candy…

crossing the sidewalk.

Backyard ghetto talk

Dirty needles in stock.

Middle of the road, Fringe-town

looking up to looking down.

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