Small Town notes:
The secret to living in a small town is knowing when to go!
The town that finds you will bind you!
It’s time to give up the drugs…When the drugs give up on you!
Immoral acts are a prelude to the immoral scars left on you!
You, yourself and someone that looks like you…
Either way your wear your town well.
the baggage, the backtalk, the smell.
New Hampshire has yet to step away from sedate behavior it has grown accustom to…Franklin is it’s skanky underbelly without under garments!
How far down can I be?
From the life that swallowed me.
Wandering down the same faded lanes.
Looking for mythical messages…
In this, the most old-fashioned of New Hampshire towns.
Where antiquated becomes motionless.
Laying about without a sound!
I would put a name to the provocation.
But am not quite sure how.
It is an unequivocal ride.
That will not end.
Not end until a name is pressed in stone.
It is the longest of journey’s home.
The air is ripe with mustard, sweet and sour.
Leaflet of grass…
Drenched in clove.
Green onion accosting the gravel road…
And, heaven’s above.
No trails to speak.
Just an agreeable, steered, waif.
A four-legged creature…
Somewhat close to the ground.
oh the glory of!
In and out of sight…without a sound.
I have written off that which is not known
Crashing into the earth…secrets come with the winds.
Dismissive pine needles of discourse…go, flow, go.
I choke on the ashes of the earth.
Soiled and turned and forgotten…
what is it that leave the belly of the beast that grows, grows and grows?
Perhaps a bitter forested pill which is embedded in plumes of snow.
To breathe or not to breathe.
The swaying maple, birch and alike,
And, I sit singing their refrain.
Ice caverns scrapping and scraping the back of my mind.
Respect a disillusion that I can no longer find.
How do I speak to trust…when whispers turn to face the screams.
Tell me, how is it the embedded with bedlam human claw marks…know where my faults have been?
I am just a faded albatross playing a clairvoyant…wrapped around a keeper’s neck.
Over and over. Under and under. Through and out. Nothing in doubt is what it seems.
Young, old, all spirits carry their own ashen crosses to the forehead of make believe.
Make believe in the air. Promises of graffitti etched in membranes of friends, long since gone.
Persons and their bundled parsonage chisel a tunnel from my ethical dreams.