I so wanted to be you
wanting

the rotting wagon tongue the
lunar dust

I wanted your west
your dying towns

the salmon that swam
upstream

and the girl that giggled and scissor kicked
in your drink

because

I'm a poet and what might
have depressed others

was lush and fertile landscape
to me

but when I traveled your America
I saw saw it

through much cheaper sun glasses
the kind

you might buy at a truck stop
or someplace

like Wall Drug
or an Indian smoke shop

with a neon war bonnet
and that

made all the difference

Living life is a painting scheme,
Creating colors to cover up the blanks,
Trying our best to break away.
We re-saturate,
The bleak shades of our face,
Replacing something organic,
With chemical compounds.
Suddenly evolving beyond natural gleam,
Distorting to fit twisted cookie cutter shapes,
We execute the order,
Of this lustful modern god.
There was beauty in the earthen iron's shape,
Forgotten glory, bent to grim reality,
Turning away from standing in the looking glass,
Becoming indistinguishable again.

The cows and sheep.
They lined the street as the sun set on Violet Town.
Reminiscent of a 21-gun salute.
You felt the Spirit hover in this cute little nook of mound.

Beyond the town
Rolly Hills surround.
Making it a playground for many;
The black-faced cuckooshrike sound!

Are there any other towns
Of colour?
Orange! Tweed Heads?! Can you name any more?
Curious about how we name things
And do their names prophetically claim their tread, galore?!