a little bit Country

The lack of quiet on the inside matches…

the abundance of stillness outside.

A distance of which is…long as, an accountability of the past.

I have tried the ebony asphalt of the city street.

Searched for calm in the downward glance…of a stranger’s eye.

In the empty storefronts, I could rent restraint…

I could not buy.

With all the urban decor,

it had been easy to see…

I will always be country on the inside.

America the Fallen: editorial

“I did and I’m not ashamed to admit it!”

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Imprisoned Japanese American Workers/D. Lange

In actuality, I had been concerned about my decision…my action!  Driving down to the local ‘city hall’…which doubles as a source of entertainment.  Offering D list comedians and bad plays by accountants turned ‘actors’ on the weekend.

This old age Opera House during the course of banker’s hours; houses the welfare director, issuer’s of hunting licenses and persons paid by the town of Franklin, New Hampshire deemed competent enough to gather your most personal information.  Voter registration, payment of fines, water and sewer late fees, etc., etc.

Franklin calls itself a city.  Yet, it is a big town with overalls on.

As many of my followers, fellow bloggers and semi interested fans, know.  I am as queer as a two dollar bill.  Obviously, I am an artist.  And, with any research, it is well known that I attempt to speak for those who feel they have no voice.

I have been a democrat all my natural born…voting life.  And, though I grew up in an abusive dictatorship, my parents, both, were leftists.

Odd for me but when I arrived at the building of paying more taxes for grade 6 roads…

Odd for me to feel panic whilst climbing the granite stairs.

‘Live Free or Die…’ kept ringing through my ears.  Such like, a protest you want to start…but have no cause.

“I would like to change my political affiliation.  Is this where I do it?”

My shaky words piercing through spit proof Plexiglas.

Used to be not long before, I dealt with a woman who shall remain nameless and scowled at me while I gave the city all the money I had.

Currently, I had been speaking to Marie.  Lovely woman in comparison to the upset city employee who shall remain nameless.

Odd, I pondered!  I am literally handing over personal information, change of affiliation and various other things…to someone…who registers my moped.

This idea to change from Democrat to Independent had taken me many months to consider.

It had always been my right of passage to believe in a more ‘socially’ aware class.  My resume as volunteer, delegate, knocker of doors, candidate for local office…is vast.

Yet, that has all changed.marion huse tenament porches

Perhaps the only route meant believing in the middle.

Dems have been walking about with their ears back like a scolded dog…for too long.

And, the potty mouth, liberator of porn stars and his posse…are certainly the direction I wish not to go.

Both sides boasting about how they are looking to enhance the lower and middle class.  Both sides playing cards without any inclination as to the life of the typical American citizen.

I am embarrassed by my government…Both local, state and federal.

What kind of sight must this country be…to those who upheld us as, liberators to the truth.imageedit_71_4355317872

An independent is variously defined as a voter who votes for candidates on issues rather than on the basis of a political ideology or partisanship; a voter who does not have long-standing loyalty to, or identification with, a political party; a voter who does not usually vote for the same political party from election.

independentvoter.wikipedia.

Small Town Voyeur

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 soil.

The soot.

The broken down by time.

Mine is baring witness to unwritten signs.

Blunts of Conformity

My town is saw dust pasted with Elmer’s glue…

It is a bitter-root.

All hung from a broken clothes line.

Then eagerly wrapped in a metal song.

To locate it?

Extend a dampened index finger to the air.

A gentle breeze of dirty diaper and bargain store candy…

will point you there.

Simple abstracts of a pool melting with bleach blonde hair.

But of course, there is a Central avenue heading toward mediocrity.

Travelers among the cracks in pavement unearthing blunts of conformity.

My town regulates in a rash of red radish blemishes.

And, cankers living amid infected sores.

My town did not ask for me.

Nor, I for it.

However, we both tow the line with similar peculiarities.

 

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Coloring Heaven

When heaven can manage to meet me.

In a crowded with goodness, forest.

Or, perhaps, beneath a cloudy sun.

In a mysterious alcove with lost souls bouncing off shallow walls.

History dripping like spare change to the tin floor.

Framed pictures of loved ones…with two feet or four.

 

When heaven can manage to meet me…

I would sit leisurely in a recycled Adirondack chair.

Pondering bubble thoughts.

Dreaming of forgotten factories and their avenues of broken schemes.

Mystical back woods.

Inflating woodsy possibility.

Bliss dripping in black and white.

With moments of color keeping score.