There's tall grass.
Hills with groves.
Cactus and painted rock.
Out there.
With the wind.
And the ghosts of the past.
That wasn't too long ago.

Ain't no one.
Not always no good.
Neither are the good ones.
I find.
But.
Doesn't really matter.
You heal or die.
It's it.

You hear crickets and coyotes.
Out there.
With no one else.
For miles.
Secret unknown things.
Happen.
The evidence just.
Disappears.

Somehow he knew me from before.
In the psycheward.
And, he was nice.
But, suicidal.
Screaming into the phone.
That he didn't know where the cows were.
He looked.

Farmer specific suicide prevention.
Exists.

Sometimes you end up driving for hours.
Down grid roads.
Thinking about working away.
The problems.
Or maybe another hit of.
Speed.

You stare out into those infinite horizons.
You see nothing.
No end.
To this stagnant desperation.
So, you chug the last of the whiskey.
Break the bottle against the truck.
And shoot something.

This is subduction.
This is desperation.
This is the void you fill with chaos.

All the junkies knew each other.
In my hometown.
There weren't many of us.
I should probably be dead.
By now.