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.

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.