Travel
Two lane highway day,
Time for me to run away;
Go until I’m gone.
The landscape sings like
flat patience
a crisp
papery
persistent
melody
that
leaves
you
muffled
looping
like a memory
you
were born
with darkness
seen through
light
in scraps
Did you get what you bargained for
when you took me in,
smelling of river mud and wet dog?
Did you finally find the perfect project
collared and house broken?
I pad through your house,
leave prints on pristine floors,
leave the handle of your faucet
smudged, breadcrumbs litter
the kitchen.
We stand at the basin,
count pills and count pops
of crepitus in our joints.
Am I indistinguishable from the wallpaper,
its faded yellow and roses?
Am I still your sunshine and you,
you, still my moon?
We stand staring at someone
unrecognizable in the mirror,
and the sound of water running
reminds us of our weak bladder.
We speak quietly as the sun sets.
Your words never sharp,
as we curl up together
in front of the blazing hearth.
If cops were smart, they’d be nurses.
If cops were brave, they’d be teachers.
If cops were strong, they’d fight fires.
If cops cared, they’d be none.
We spotted our quest—
untouched lots of weeds
outside the city limits
it was the mid 1950’s
three third graders
with crafted machetes
we saw on TV
the three of us
faced the grasses
taller than we stood
in front of us was
the Amazon Jungle, Egypt, a desert island,
the whole of Africa
we were not in a field in Texas anymore
we were archaeologists, pirates, escapees from bad guys
we were searching for a secret passage, rescuing captives,
hunting down treasure
it all blended together
we were going from nowhere to somewhere
in the height of expectation
pushing us deeper into our mission
in full drama
with our machetes
hacking down grasses
with a life or death resolve
sweating bullets
in the summer sun
sharing in the freedom of
our passionate desire to
conquer the world
three kids making
a one day
quest
last
forever
Only the weak do
What the evil termite wants:
Kill other colors
our little county robertson
full of hot rods & robin hoods
woke one morning in 0-8
to find all 2222 of us were
appalachians
merely on the edge of the edge
but with poverty flaming red
the plate tectonics
of the bureaucratic earth
shifted and we left northern
k-y to join eastern k-y
on the map we stick out like a sore thumb
though there’s no cumberland
gap or plateau or falls
no museum made of coal
no big sandy or little sandy
no sheltowee trail
no red river gorge
we’re part of you now
appalachia,
if you come to visit
from morehead or berea
you’ll see no big highway
no whistle stop
no factory no jail
but a new school
a covered bridge
a park where the indians won
the coolest brewery ever;
in joining with you
our fervid hope, appalachia,
is we’re not just another sore spot
at the tail end of your spine
This morning, the soul longing hit that
I needed to hear classical music
sometimes, I am unable to stop everything
and tend to the intense desire
but this morning I was able to
just sit back and soak it in
The open strands to the Mozart piece
that I have listened to many times
and played almost as many
washed over me
and brought a sense of calm and joy
that nothing else brings
As the complicated yet catchy melody
goes through the many key changes
that the brilliant composer beautifully
constructed, I feel a sense of awe
that this man that lived so long ago
is speaking straight to my heart
As the magic of music soothes my heart
and at the same time, energizes me,
I must start my day
However, I have a feeling that
this beautiful music will stay
with me for hours or perhaps even days
