The work was done
Everyone knew the plan
And where to meet
We'd cash our checks
Fill our coolers
And head to the woods
Good friends
Warm fire
Cold beer
Life was simple  
Life was perfect

Now all I have is the memories
The friends are around its me that left
The woods are there
But life moved to the house

But not for me
For me life went away
Away from the woods
From my friends
My warm safe fire
And cold sweet beer

Life went away from it all
I went where the wind took me
Now I go were my country wants me

I miss the woods
I miss my friends
I miss my girl cuddled under my arm
I miss the jokes
I miss the smoke

I miss the woods

Lines of red lights stretch back to my life
How I wish  could make the lights yellow
A U-turn is easy
But impossible when there's no one to turn to

My home is made of grit and dirt

The taps run sweat,

the windows are shattered,

their glass clinging to frames

like broken teeth to gums in the mouth of a boxer.

My town is a fighter,

built of scrap metal and machines.

The streets are steel

and the river nuts and bolts,

its gears turn through rust

and parts corrode away.

Time turns it green, orange,

black with oil and grime,

but my city is a fighter,

made of grit and dirt,

and it lives.

I try to avoid the invasion of screams that bounce
towards me from wall to wall like loud angry
ghosts jumping on trampolines with rusty springs.

A stolen fan hums by the door of my childhood room to
create an addictive mechanical barrier of sound that is
haunted with the impatient voices of a static future.  

Quietly trapped in a dismal pile of broken wood where
brief escapes provide a hit of beautifully brutal knowledge.
Only to repeatedly return to this stagnant town.

Attempt to remain lost in the glow of this virtual reality.
Machines keep me connected at a distance so now I can
embrace the meaningless solitary moments with friends.

In this time of repair these lives have forever misfired as I
wait for that silence from hell that comes after the sun
evaporates the rivers dry.  It's almost time to leave.

My life has shrunk
to fit the skin
of this small town

to live inside
the microcosm
of it's streets

to tell it's sad tales
of love & loss
& bygone travels

to walk the ways
I've known
since childhood

even the guest
that came last night
is from the street

I lived on
when I went
to college

& who was
also labelled 'mad'
here by the docs

this is a town
like any town
that locks it's dreamers up

& spits them out
to live branded
& afraid of their own shadows

a town
I want to leave
a town that once I loved

My parents grew up in a town
that everyone drove through
but no one could remember the name of
and the trees grew in perfect rows
like city buildings.
It was a  place that had one school with every grade,
one diner that everyone drank coffee at,
and one church that everyone went to
no matter their beliefs.
My parents grew up in a town
where the tombstones outnumbered the people
that hid behind wavy seas of green
where no one can see them
unless you need to place flowers on the mounds
for your own sake.
My parents grew up in a town
where the number one place
for a crime scene
wasn't a dark alley
or ****** bar
but in your own **** living room.
My parents grew up in a town
where tragedy arose like clockwork
yet was always treated as a surprise
solved with
light, feathery words that held
no weight
like a band aid that always
seemed to get ripped off.
And the best way to talk about solutions
was to keep your mouth shut.
Ignorance is the speediest way
to keep your town perfect.
You had to hold on to your own ideas
and choke the others out.
My parents grew up in town
where you could only see the surface
decorated with smiling faces
worn like masks.
and what lies beneath
was only shown to the human eye
when it was too late.

I have grown up in the same house most of my life
15 years ago I stood on the pavement of my driveway
Learning how to hula hoop for the first time
Meeting my next door neighbors

15 years later I stand on the pavement looking down
I can't help but think how much it saw
How many people have walked on it
Friends, family, acquaintances, random handymen, or FedEx people

I wonder how many heartbreaks its seen
How many tears have been shed
How many skinned knees have happened

Today I stood on the pavement and wondered how many more heartbreaks
people
tears
skinned knees it has left to see

How many more years this pavement would have with me
With my family

I stood on this pavement wondering how the time was ticking
How this pavement has maybe 5 years left with me

*With the footsteps of my family.

Flow in a long stream,
I fall into a deep dream.
Waving smoke with rosy glow,
Lightly red the bamboo grove;
In the brilliant gloam,
I see some fire worms,
They shine, they light,
Cross the field, through the hill,
Finally sit on a farmer’s hat;
The man stumbles along the track,
Husky and a little laze,
His distant voice echoes around:
“Go back home—Go back home—”

I wake suddenly with a start,
The city lives fast still tonight,
A sea of neon, reflect in my eyes;
The world is glossy, but mine is clumsy;
I just hope, not to be shoved forward.
And the time I look back,
My hometown will just be there;
And the time I listen for,
The distant echoes will just be here:
“Go back home—Go back home—”
Linger round with no end.

All I can remember is that time in Wal-Mart
when your older sister came to me and asked:
“Is it true that Payton went to the ****** bin?”

I wonder where she heard that lie and how many
more were threaded among Honesdale locals,
weaved into their perceptions of my family--

their shoulders betrayed them when they turned
away as if we were the diseased ones rotting
inside-out--maybe we were, in a way--but at least

swallowing all this salt healed our wounds
faster than your actions would fade from memory.
I punched you the day I found out even as you

scoffed, laughed, you hadn’t ever taken me seriously.
At 17, I had learned not many people would--but
my revenge came after I moved three hours south,

when your father died of cancer, your best friend
crashed your mother’s car, your sister fled
all the way to England to escape the mistakes

eating at her shadow, and I got out of our hellish
town. You became rooted among manure, ***-
holes too deep to outgrow--I’m sure you’re choking

on worms by now. And when I finally reach
the lofty sky, I’ll hold the sun between green hands.
I’ll hide its light and warmth from you.