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JR Potts Oct 2013
Lincoln Highway moved
more like a dance than a road
It drifted like the wind
corroded the earth
to guide me home.
The colors of the coming autumn
careened down, painting
the asphalt canvas below.

I had left Latrobe less than an hour ago
but crossed into a distant world
where the overgrown homes of old
remained among the ancient trees
breathing and watching me.

Weathered red paint running down
dilapidated barns like wax
melting from a candle's wick.
So star spangled Americana
it would not do it justice
to refer to it as just the sticks.

There was something profound happening;
the "American Dream" was dying here
and I was to bear witness
as the shinning city on the hill
fell into the metaphorical sea.

Spellbound in this catastrophe,
my ego still finds a way
to make it all about me.
I could not help but wonder
if Andy would remember
our talk about technology;
if Eamon and Bridgette would forget us three
walking hand in hand through the wood
and down the tracks,
battling back the inebriation
in the cold, hard black of a September night.
If these moments meant anything
to anyone but me.

My eyes locked on the horizon line
that rested atop a mountain peak.
I thought about how I left you,
left you three words short
of having me complete.
And I'd be lying if I didn't say
I contemplated running back to you
to speak what went unsaid
because home is not a place
but a thought in one's head.

You were home but I kept on driving
past the bones of a dying dream
letting my dreams die a little too
quietly inside of me.
Collins Carlin Nov 2014
Hey guys
Guess what!
I've been drinking since 8 PM yesterday evening
It's going on 4 AM.
Whiskey and watered down, or stale, cola.
And I still don't feel like socking some random
Bystander
In the face.
Right hook
For no reason at all.
In Latrobe
Pistolvania,
Because that's how you prove strength.
That's how you show your dominance.
I guess.

I beg to disagree.
Tunnel vision's setting in. No holding back now.

I don't give a **** who you are.
I don't give a **** what you're made of.
If you're ready to lay hands on
My father,
And my brother,
Know full and well that you just dug your own ******* grave.

I will pull you off of my brother.
I will make you submit.
And you will know "you done goofed"
As you and yours would put it so beautifully.

The man you once respected for holding his own
Is now the man who holds your fate.
The Jolteon Jan 2015
Painted green
No eggs and ham
Number "33"
One 12 oz can
Once from glass tanks
They do flock
Old Latrobe
The Rolling Rock

— The End —