I have literally spent the last two weeks searching for two things:
A mouse pad! That’s right…a simple, useful, device for the desk!
Pink Canada Mints for when I get parched!
Not too far down the road from this the smallest, big city in New Hampshire is, Revere, Massachusetts. A lovely high crime city. It is mostly known as a burial ground for the Southies of Boston.
Side note: I once spent a night in a mortuary…in a coffin…in Revere. But that is another story for another time.
Long story short, the Necco company thought it would be cheaper to just close down…instead of removing the ‘scat’ and rodents…discovered within the machines.
So now WE have no more candy hearts, Necco Wafers, Mary Janes and Pink Canada Mints.
How hard is it for some sugar company to pick up the ball and run…with this one?
The loosing of the Malted Milk Balls did not phase me that much. Though, I do enjoy chocolate Necco Wafers.
Because of my internal hysteria…I have up’d my meds. So much so that I delusional-ly envisioned my desk with:
Autumn spurns ice cream.
Had the tire tracks been just a dream.
Scratching with four paws at the door.
They say, bad things happen to good people.
But I say, wicked is wicked.
Like candy from a candy store…there will always be more.
The signs are still all around in this beat up town.
Rugged is the night, well soiled beaten boots, lonely and homeless…
ten speed bikers abound.
I had not known you but your death lingers in traces of waterfalls and fractured mills.
With innocence of voice could your youth ever be found?
I too get lost from time to time.
Woods shadow my heart…disfigure my mind.
Muddied snowfall calls from a vagrant timber.
Beneath a land of lost souls…I am not always sound.
In the chill of spring rains…
Comes the ridicule.
A flurry of inquiries sounding off to tone-deaf songs.
Moistened mists whose embrace feels lonely and wrong.
Chilled April tears aware of all the ways to be wicked.
Rapidly descending lullaby’s of walks that will never be.
Addled salutations awash in April rains…
a chorus of her dramatic melodies.
“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.” Edgar Allan Poe
I found my wants in a pile of residual snow.
As if, it had no place left to go.
Over the wrecked rectory on the hill.
Beyond the country store where the town drunks get their fill.
Ten miles past Franklin Motel.
A habitat for the loners looking to get out of hell.
I nudged my desires with a blackened steel toe.
As if, I had no place left to go.
Years before gravity took hold.
I fanned a flame to a luxurious limbo.
It had been an overfed shelter of lust and misconstrued need.
But my flame grew higher and harder to fed.
I kicked at the embers.
Such as I do now.
With a lessened ego.
Ash to ash…I made sure it had no place left to go.
It would appear that contentment starts slow.
As in the vacant burning back lots.
As in the gradual interment of lack luster thoughts.
Standing over the stained melting snow.
I now have some place that I can go.
It is my town.
For the ordinary, it recedes under your nails, and creeps around.
For the blessed,
it settled in your soul and grows old.
Gritty ghosts with broken spokes can fade into view.
Sainted storms on a slant.