The clover is invincible…
The green gold grass…waist high.
Stocks of infant corn stand in allegiance…out of the corner of my eye.
And, that is all I need to know today.
That is all I need to know.
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