Tent in the Woods

Tent City is in the air.

Has it just arrived or…had it always been there?

The hillside is on fire with the anonymous.

Between the purple majesty…lay a forgotten influx.

No post in which to hang our flag.

No tails to be wagged.

michael
MIchael Ginnie: holding a picture of Junior. Junior ended up being surrendered. As Michael puts it, “…the winter outside…ain’t no place for a dog!”

Down country lanes with no true name…

No city grit to meet the feet.

How rural the homeland and it’s deceit.

 

 

Poverty Pond

Poverty Pond, what a lonely drink of water.

Does your name tell a story?

poverty pond 1

Or, has the richness of a thrashed season…stole the glory.

Gaps in the gleam and the glare…illusions of seeming to care.

What would you know of fanfare?

Black as a demon from a stolen heart.

Ugliness sinking from your lost cause.

Where have the ripples revealed all the flaws?

Just a Band-Aid

Only a Band-Aid away from What, I do…

from What I say!

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Miller Creation/D. Lange

Running with the Jones’s…living in the fray.

A stranger to me, she seemed to have moved a full house…

in the middle of a full moon night…

with only distant light to display her plight.

Way out on a savagely grown heritage trail…

My suspicious mind nothing but a broken arrow.

I am a display all my own.

Self-centered and sharp…meant to implode and impale.

Que me veux tu - What you want me 1928 Claude Cahun (French, 1894–1954) France Photographer
Claude Cahun:

Four wheels filled to the brim.

Greetings were exchanged.

Both of us portrayed discomfort, as though it were…a late summer’s whim.

My stranger packed all nuances away…

As if it were just another day.

My despair traveled with me, another quarter of mile.

In the end,

turning all attention to me…

I had lost my stranger some how.

hints and accidents 2

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.

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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