Ashland is a small town
on a small planet, in an
ever expanding universe.
The people here are bitter
and so is their spit, from
full-flavored cigarettes
and diluted kisses spun
from the lips of significant
others, that didn't listen to their
mothers, and married because of
irresponsible reasons, like personality,
respect, love, and other, 'Jesus, **** me
the **** now, so help me.'

Abstract thought is dangerous--
to the mind it's cancerous.
Alone and thinking about
melancholy shaped memories or
kisses that would echo through
your lungs, stomach, ******* soul.
Don't do it. Don't you invite the devil,
killing yourself is so concrete, it must
mean more than a concrete floor,
hovering above a rumored hell and a
definite uncertainty so delicate that it
eats into you with its sensitive meandering
disguised as beauty but, really, a violent,
violent, murderous host, hoax, fake but
eating your superficiality, programmed by
someone else, telling you it's you.

Ashland is a small town,
aren't we all a small town, inwardly.

In July, I collect stardust
And text dust
I linger in Shakespeare’s shadow
And who knew
He had a home in Oregon
I walk along his stairs
Finding myself hovering in front
A trio of theatres, tall witches
Brewing a cauldron of magic
Each performance, enticing
Crowds from every corner
And I follow in suit
Getting lost in the magic
That makes me want
To not return home

Doors held open,
smiles and hellos
more often than stares.
backpacks left solitary
among the dozens of legs.

Mountains so close, I could reach out
and brush the snow from the top
Up so high, I look down on clouds.
Palm trees and pine trees,
a little of home.
Air so crisp,
it scorches your lungs.
World so green,
feet rebel against concrete.
Little revolutions every day.
I stumble over concrete,
uneven and crumbled.
Wonder how many
have wandered through
these broken roads
and felt home
beneath their feet.
Wonder how many
have fallen in love
right
here.

On Ohio nights, you've got fireflies.
     Out West, we like our rifles.
Never pull your days out from the roots
     'til the nights have all been ripened.

City lights are purpling blackened streets
and we can see our way to habits through
          these neighborhoods...

Our sentences are carbines.
Order up a few more rounds.
I guess it's almost automatic
when the late reports all sound
          like we've got
          rain all week.
        It's rain all week.
And you're so sick of parades.

You say you want a Summer.
One that never ends.
One that takes you back to Ashland,
          brings you
sense of time and feelings for old friends.

I think the party's over.
No streamers on the wall.
Pack your bags, punch a ticket,
          bring a
jacket and I'll see you in the Fall.

          I'll see you in the Fall.

On Ohio nights, you've got fireflies.
     Out here, we've got some mountains?
Never load your words into your clip
     'til the shells have all been counted.
City lights rain gold on midnight streets
and we can feel our way familiar through
          these neighborhoods.

Our paragraphs are Kevlar.
Knocking down another round.
When the night sky tries to swallow
you, the late reports all sound
          like we've got
          rain all week.
       It's rain all week.
I was so tired of parades.

I'm looking towards the Winter.
Know how that one ends.
It'll take me back to Sheridan,
          bring
sense of time and memories of old friends.

I think the party's over.
No streamers on the wall.
Pack your bags, punch a ticket
          bring a
jacket and I'll see you in the Fall.

       I'll see you in the Fall.

A starter home on a frozen plain
Located on the corner of
drifted dreams and main
Cigarettes and old ramen
A *** for posture, a dish pile
I hear the storm coming
Have heard it for a while

Lick me like the stamps
on the letters
to your ex-lover,
Break me like the twenties
you got from your mother.
Abuse me like the creep
you wish I was,
Use me then lose me
just because.

Venus Ramey Murphy,        
(September 26, 1924 – June 17, 2017)
American beauty pageant contestant &
activist;  Venus won the Miss America
competition in Atlantic City,
New Jersey  |      |      |      |
                           on September 9, 1944;

Born in Ashland, Kentucky,
Venus left Kentucky to work
for the war effort in
Washington, DC, & there won
the Miss District of Columbia pageant,
& then onto      Miss America in 1944;              
                      Venus Ramey
was the first Miss America
to be photographed in color
&    the first red-haired to win the title

I started listening to AM Christian
radio b/c it's funny; but on one side
of the dial is Rush Limbaugh & on
the other is Pravda in Russian; a
little further up the dial, I can hear
the latest on the record number of
undocumented transgenders running
for public office; I never thought I'd
miss dumb blondes & ******, but
happily married gay couples are the
reason a bloviating ignoramus like
Limbaugh is on the radio in the first
place;  
                           |                               
                                ­                [I'm not
the sort to gawk at penises,   but even
that would be a marked improvement
over watching Rush Limbaugh] | [I
don't watch Christian TV  b/c it's too
calculatedly stupid, as if anyone still
believed in backwoods hucksterism]
or the visible, risible conundrum of
an over-the-hill beauty queen;   what
does one do after being crowned one
of the most beautiful women on earth;
Jesus, **** or homosexuality [        ]

Stopper of hearts,
   but what have you done
   to all the lads of Ashland?

    Your struggling cheek
   a soft delight
   chaffed against a world of sadness-



The candy shop, no sweeter,
despite it's lollipops and chocolates
than the ******* alive and prideful
at the fluttering of her naked lashes. 

Civil when you meet her,
she knows where the aorta's at-
Squeezing like a vice grip
at the ruddy heart attack

Calloused lilies sprout into the cold air
shaking off their scales.

A moment of clarity, before they give birth again.
mercurial joy.
I find myself asking questions from letters,
gluing them into hexes upon myself

growing sentences and growing light
that hides and shivers and runs
before it can fully glow.

My stars prevail.
oh, that fleeting warmth,
I want to melt within the safety of the universe
and inhale the light

so close to the tips of my fingers
ever tipping
further away

Frozen wasteland
Of human remains
Where there once
Were dandelion kisses
And lovers in the grass.
Now there only
Lies ash.

It coats my throat
And fills my lungs.
A copper taste
Forever in my mouth.
Left questioning exactly
Where in my life
This anxious
Wasteland of recurrent
Depression was decided.

Neatly trimmed hedges
Expensive cars and houses
Neighbors sleep outside

Ice cold winds blow through
Ashland, city of wonders
You wear a thick coat

Walking past clusters
Of less fortunate people
They are just background

"Not always their fault,"
"They're human," "it could be you."
Inconceivable

Walking past hunger,
You spend fifty bucks on lunch.
Insignificant

For you the world is,
Nothing more than what you see.
Sad, not uncommon.

Rolling mint
hillock
of Ashland,
estate of my
grandparents,
where I curled
dreams
into the blue
room's sheets.
Honeysuckle's
ladder up
the brickwork
reached like
spring fingers
towards
my window.

From brown
shadows I saw
foxes steal
over the
crumbling
drive. Clouds
crashed
into trees,
deer ate
lawn in
the evening,
uncle's autos
coruscating
in the tall
grass wilds.

In that bed
I came of
age with
thoughts
of women
naked -
Torches
of thought
ached and
led the way
deeper
& deeper
as they dripped
scalding tar
all across
my adolescence.

Years went by
inside me.
Stones fell
from the sky,
hard as ***.
Fox bones
slept
in the wood.
The television
sat like
an idol
on the lace,
a pressure
that touched
every wall.

The sun
a chorus.
The moon
a thigh.
Something wet
rustled in the
eye that
burrowed
beneath
the pillow.