Traffic noise and the scent of an approaching thunderstorm
drifts in through the door,
naively left open,
igniting reflections of simpler days spent
smoking cigars behind rusted machinery
and fallen trees in
Grandma's field,
and how we would take picnic lunches
and bottles of *****
to the riverbank,
laughing before the fire
smearing silt onto our faces and bodies,
keeping the sun away
as we walk
across the waterfall,
wading in the stagnant flows of August,
when the water was so hot
it felt like the whole world was on holiday,
all bonfires and suntans
laying us in respite from the heartache
of the winter prairie.
Whiskey and pickup-truck beds
yielding sanctuary
from chores or the chaos
of family.
The same song I'm listening to now
lilting from the truck's cab
so new
and full to the brim with meaning,
while the dashboard lights
illuminated sweetheart dreams
of the city,
averted eyes
revealing the dark
of lies
hidden in the soil,
and how we would leave this place,
surrendering the anonymity
of shooting tin cans off log fence posts,
grass stains and muddy flip-flops
to brick tower exhaust fumes
and a cheap pack of cigarettes
smoked in a dingey bar
over a whiskey sour
and a notebook
covered in country flowers,
painted fingerprints writing
homesick sonnets to lovers
abandoned amongst the cornstalks and glass bottles,
40-proof promises
concocted in homemade stills
and disassembled beneath the city skyline
that obscures those stars
On which we pleaded
and wished for
our emancipation.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
Kids set fire to southern churches
and god turned a blind eye
to this spectacle
when he sent flames to ravage
the flatlands.
the dirge of a dying politician's
diseased voice strains
through the blown out
crackling speakers in my
car that was shaking apart
as we drove further West
towards the smoke and sirens,
the highway coddling it's median,
black with charred grass.
Sun shone through a cracked window,
while outside, the shimmering
wheatfields and acres of sunflowers
were pushing us farther
into unknown territories,
the many fenceposts passing like hours,
we want them to go quickly...
something better must be hiding
beyond that next plateau.
We clung religiously
to our notebooks
and copies of "Being and Nothingness ",
a pen in one hand,
a lighter in the other,
discussing ways to twist the words of others
into our own truths.
The butane flames dance,
igniting the scorched images
of smoldering plains and wooden beams,
angels crucified with the
damning politics of hope.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 11:15 PM UTC