I'm itching everywhere
but really I don't care
'cause the air's so sweet
and the crickets song
won't last long
summer's
almost
gone.

concrete speed
white dash dash dash dash dash
signs read Jesus John 3:3
160 miles to cincinati
148 miles to cincinatti 150 miles to cincinatti
dash dash dash concrete concrete
I have lost my creativity the highway
has ****** it from me
i see only sterile ruins of what was once great and beautiful
but is now trash on the side of the road
void of spirit or character
Where am I? Who am I? What am I? What have we become? Why have we made life into such an inorganic jungle of cold fear desperation hollowness? Why have we destroyed what we were given and created a jail?
A mental physical jail where we have all become strangers. We are foreigners in our own land
we dont know where we came from we dont know where we are going
but we just keep going and going and going will the highway ever end? it won't because we will continue to build it faster than we can drive
faster than the fast food we eat along the way

mind wanders, detached
flotsam trapped in future's seiche
waves crash unnoticed

why do you talk like that?
like a schoolteacher
like your friends
like all the other twentysomethings

like you moved to a big city and here i am in a small town

i've known you your whole life
and now you tell me twice
you grabbed a drink last week

i could sense the tone as i read
it was not the you i knew

and i told you to get real

she said to me:
you've been reading too much of that guy
who wrote catcher in the rye

and i went silent and you were ****** right

I add sweet sweet honey warm
to feed my little
yeasts

in spring when there is nothing but the melting snow and the bare brown twigs and life ready to exhale
there is no flower for the bee to buzz in so he comes after me and I puff up

the summer makes them greedy with blooms to fight over and nests to gaurd and, tending to my own business,
they sting me anyway for being and i puff up

summer days get shorter and blackberries ripen and i gather heavy friuts and the branches bounce back,
and there are the bees consumed in their work and this time i am stung only by thorns

and finally autumn comes and i bite into that first crispy apple and juice runs down my wrist and my hands are sticky and sweet and bees come wildly swarming around me like a halo

and we are happily drunk with the joy of autumn together