Head in Sand’s of Cotton

The matters of survival…came minus a note. It arrived with no fanfare…Teasing me…so, perhaps, I would not know it was there. The tactics did not grasp at straws. It was kindred to a hungry, stray dog…giving to a constant gnaw. Eating and thriving …Instincts purposeful and raw. By happenstance, my strategy began under covers. I stuck my head in a sand of cotton. Instead of waking up…I came to. All but the pain had been forgotten. And, thus I began my infinite walk towards survival. Yet, I have never been a fan of the games people play. Always had to do things my own way. Discovering…long ago, when walking alone, there is no deceiving with the faces we portray.

Ordinary Still-Life

Grizzled houses desperate in need for a weary, traveler’s feet.

Hanging to chasms of rubbish buried with half burned tin cans…

the cleavage of crippled, front doors


Bygone…ordinary, tarnished, steel coat pegs.


forgotten ice skates

and the one cent stamp.


A room.

A community not centered.

A destination of ordinary.

A place of my own…

A house kept in my withering hands…with a body in similar repose.

Dust in day by day.

Secretly I will drive it away.


These Days

Well, I’ve been out walking…I don’t do that much talking these days.  These days…I seem to think a lot about the things I forgot to do for you…and, all the times I had the chance to.

And, I had a lover!  It is so hard to risk another…these days.  Now if I seem to be afraid to live the life I have made…in song.  Well, it’s just that I’ve been losing so long.

I’ll keep on moving.  Things are bound to be improving…these days.  These days I sit on corner stones and count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend.

‘Don’t confront me with my failures…I had not forgotten them.’


Scents of Creosote

I had been easily tempted to witness the burn out house.

To recollect those feelings.

To cherish my hatred.

To bemoan decades of fear and doubt.

I drove by the structure

times 1I drove by

And, drove by again.

My wanting for display began to wear thin.

Scents of creosote and thin dusky air does not change.

So, I went to raging waters to rearrange.

To evoke black soot tragedy from another’s time…could never be mine.

I had discovered the healing rains ever so kind.

#Thoughts About Dogs

Plumes of smoke fill the air.  Leaving the dogs without a care.  Four paws reliant on a whim.

Distraction…only their own personal flair.

imageedit_2_8590129259If I could live in their moment…I would.

Capturing time…neither good, nor bad…

Just understood.