Route 26—
You’re my
kindred spirit.
Taking me by the hand,
leading me down back roads
that gleam the inner light—for a while.
Paths that paddle between Maine
and New Hampshire, daring,
to locate content--
I fret, then find, that one
pine tree that humbly
will converse.
Her soothing tongue flails in
the wind as she tells me to go
that way…
Towards the water—
Where many plant
their fears,
and wishes,
to a flowing infinity that
never comments, judges or
tries to give stale advice…
I am not used to
finding sanctuary into the stare
of a stream,
Glinting, glistering.
The surge of noise shimmers
and sways—bouncing off rocks,
toward delivery into a once
erased soul…
I am still comfortable
seeing the torrent alone.
The isolation is my companion.
Pillars, a haven of my security.
The hum of spraying flow of course—
Quiet self-flattery.
Route 26.
Amusing, I have an
easier time reflecting
on the dark side of our
relationship.
For many weeks, you
were my suicide ideation.
A potential hiding place, within
the deep, dark, depressed
unused forest—that seemed
to stretch for miles.
Where my body would
hang—swinging from a sadden
Oak…
Time would fly, my existence
only a worried memory.
Bemoan a purpose
and you end up ecstatic
in solitude—
This might not be the worst
case scenario.
Route 26, you also serve
as a symbol of the beatings
I took as a child from a perplexing
father.
a provider for my milieu needs.
Taking my courage, my self-worth,
my opportunity to find normal…
without being frightful of being
hit or ridiculed.
The isolated woods bring me to a time
of walking…
Just walking, through the woods of safety…
Smelling the summer pine and feeling the
needles on the ground.
This is where I retreated to get away from
Dad’s black moods…
When the house became eerie and
you walked on eggshells, not to anger
the wild beast.
Route 26, you bring me reminders…of
Good and bad
Light and dark
Lonely but loved…
I will now go
home to my Laura.
Sigh as I enter the house,
kissing my soul survivor.
There are no inquiring questions
About what, where, when…
why.
Just love from beauty.
An understanding of who
I am…Where I’ll be—until
Mr. Jones, the Grim Reaper,
Solstice blues or some
other gangster/unruly preacher…
Will take me away to walk, see, observe
love & hate…somewhere I have never
been.
Flores
You’ll probably never get a
chance to coach in the NFL again…
Jerry Jones turns to
Bob Kraft,
winks—
and orders another Midori drink
at the owners meeting…
Yea…
Bull Fight
Never wanted the beast
to die in my dreams.
I cursed the matador, while the
fixed, disgusting battle came to
an end.
Then, I blighted the bull, for
doing nothing to defend itself…
Nothing is beautiful
until it retaliates.
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