When I was growing up in Wisconsin, dairy farms were everywhere.  It was always fun visiting my aunt and uncle's dairy farm, even though they put me to work.  For many years the only bathroom they had was away from the house!  I read an article today about people complaining about smells coming from dairy farms and pig farms.  It reminded me when our family would drive the 3 1/2 hours to visit Grandma and Grandpa.  Some farms hardly had any bad odor, but others reeked!  This was especially horrible to us city kids.  "Mom, what's that smell?" my sisters and I would ask every time.  We asked Mom because she'd answer us.  Dad would only laugh.  Good times!  

Midwest dairy farms
intermittent putrid stench-
fun childhood road trips

By: Ramon Carlos T. Castillo (Jack Wilder)

We're in the days of our youth,
It's the perfect time to be alive,
Young and naive in the world of reality's mess,
So come with me and spread your arms wide,
Throw your problems and hang on tight,
We're about to break free and fly,
Going to disappear into the night,
Only being seen on the shades of traffic lights,
No worries, no tomorrow to bother about,
Just now and the both of us,
Gone with the wind fading into the darkness,
Forever, yes we'll be,
Forever, we'll be young.

I hear the motor humming in the background

I hear the chirps from the morning birds, and even they don't sound enthusiastic about the time of day

I can hear your mom scratching bug bites on her arm. She scratches, digs, and scrapes, as if she is expecting to find something.

Bottles of sweet tea sit rattling next to me, clanking with each bump in the road, with each jump of my heart.

I hear brakes screeching to a slow stop, with a desperateness that reminds me of my darkest moments, my cries that no one witnessed, the tears that fell without acknowledgement.

The sun has yet to warm the world this morning, but it still casts its light on my arms, making my sunburn tingle but reminding me I'm alive

I can smell your great grandmother's perfume from when she hugged me so tight, reminding me of a family I never had.

I can smell the ocean, feel the grit of sand in the car. No matter how hard you try, we all take a bit of the beach home with us. It's salty waters one day blend with our salty tears.

But all I care to hear
Are your sweet shallow yawns and breathing. As long as you're breathing that's always all I need.

I think I could very well tackle anything if I knew all the time that you were alive, content, and happy.

I feel the need to give you an apology, for what I truly do not know. But whatever it is, I am genuinely sorry. Please, never let yourself go. Learn to love yourself as I love you.

My idea of a party is having sand in my hair while I smell of burnt wood and midnight barbecue
Music will be the waves that crash and return and messy chords on an acoustic guitar
And I will remember when we both wished that we could go on road trips on hours like this,
And how eventually time ran short for us, so we're finally here
I want to get drunk on the moonlight while I sip on yesterday's memories
I want to talk about the good times
I will fall asleep enveloped in nature's arms and dance while the stars twinkle high above

My idea of a party are late night drives and stops at gasoline stations at unearthly hours,
Conversations that result to slurred words and cackling with the windows rolled down,
Romanticizing over the architecture of rotting wood and crumbling concrete
Books and printed words under a flashlight

My idea of a party are rolled sleeves and roadtrips away from every soul and every touch of skin,
Away from the world, except yours I will never grow tired of

n.j.

I pray to the Man on the Moon; he listens to me every night.
He knows when to send fireflies in green and white glow; I believe in him
just like how I believe in road trips and their gram of health benefits.
I do not believe in sunlight, in daylight, in blazing heat that cuts
my skin without honor or grace, or respect. I believe in the Dusk and the
precedence of Dawn, and the exchange of whimpers between the now and five
minutes before that; in the dust that cannot seem to settle when I hold my
hand against the first greeting of the day.
I am made of dust and sand; I am made of clay, of sheds of disappointments
and blisters of neverending tomorrows. I am skins and heart that skid on
a swinging tire loosely cramped on a tree branch. I lift my feet up before I
do that huge push, and it is the closest to flying. I believe in flying high
and landing deep, with bruises and cuts on my forehead, and splinters on my
palm.
I believe in the Man on the Moon and the truth he tells me. I believe in
looking up, closing my eyes and smiling as I feel the first drops of heavenly
drizzle; I catch some in my mouth. I do not believe in the truth spoken and
outside; I believe in the whispered honesty of tongues who cannot lie, who seek
clapped eyes and receptive hearts. I believe in the witch doctor and if he says
run, I will go.
I believe in quiet nights spent curled with old pressed pages on Earth that
reek of ink and strings and speak of hopeful hearts and bones. I believe in hope.
I always hope. I believe in unmade beds on a Saturday morning and why the sheets remain white.
I don't believe in shared moments spent talking, mouths moving against skins;
I believe in looking, in always searching, in intertwined hands that talk more
than mouths and sharp tongues, in gazing and waiting and understanding that
waiting is the Man on the Moon smiling at me, in the unspoken kindness of
being held.