Small Town Notes

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.

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New Hampshire has yet to step away from sedate behavior it has grown accustom to…Franklin is it’s skanky underbelly without under garments!

the Spirits

It drink it in as though, it were my original sin.

Tin boots beating at the paneled walls…that hold my mind in place.

A cool breeze canvases karma and comes away…whispered reminders of debts yet…to be paid.

How daring to not imbibe when the spirits surround my blind side.

The hoarse intonations gather at the base of bad decisions…

And, what I hear?

...there is no place to hide.  I will find me!

Gritty Ghost Towns

It is my town.

For the ordinary, it recedes under your nails, and creeps around.

For the blessed,

it settled in your soul and grows old.

 

Gritty ghosts with broken spokes can fade into view.

Sainted storms on a slant.

And…

Poached prophets…askew.

 

Security Breeds My Lazy Sobriety

 

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Physically forgotten,

are the footfalls deluded by haste.

Gray-outs,

with the sunshine,

pass due date.

Illegal rummage sales among watercolors from an artist on the take.

Loosing chase with overcast informer.

Longing for the finish-line.

Unsanctioned rhyme…

About doing the poor woman’s time.

In the back of my mind…I have been tone down before.

Shade shackled at my crow’s-feet.

A burden of defeat?

Anxiety cupped in a blurred retreat.

Why not?

Acid washed and hung-out to dry.

The running has to stop.

Still…

On glory days,

a pledge of allegiance to the boozy haze.

Visions of illusions,

I wished were never severed.

Misadventures cut loose,

unharnessed.

un-tethered.

Lost direction has made its comeback.

And, it is animation that I lack.

From what the elders have told…

‘there is no cure for sobriety growing old.’

Just parchment pieces of parched reprieve…hand rolled.

 

Next Year’s Harvest

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It all seems so daunting,

empty tin buckets awaiting nature’s sugar.

Half filled barns,

speculating next year’s harvest.

Local rehabs with no room at the Inn.

How many more New Years, 

’til we cannot begin again?

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