I should just plan on writing
every time I get to thinking: I miss the nothing
that comes from roadside confessionals, having been once or twice in my life consumed by knowing, fingering the change between my pocket and thigh, knowing it comes at all hours of the day and night, sometimes not at all except for the escape ship clause and last minute prayers - sometimes you're the victim of circumstances and other times you're the cause.
I'm the owner
of a dead Chevy Nova
I've been hauling around since
Florida
left a lasting mark on over, strained attempts don't win
they just get in the way of tangled sins, after the fall it was all down hill, no matter where you end up you've got someplace to call home. All they say when they say it at all is the first place grin is so close to losing you might as well love it instead, doomed before ever getting to begin.
There are hours inside that might try if not for my guts, swollen rivers
rock hard shores that give my mouth the perfect air to cut deep grooves in desert air
lips, fine lines and cracked bleeding is the despair of powder-red-ruche stings from those central San Joaquin valley remembering, my desperate roadside confessionals of doubt.
Through air and every thought there is, time consumes the sanctity of dreaming, no moon or midnight believing there's healing in believing anything you can prove.
Maybe the like is like that old man Friday, that dead man with bulging cheeks of dirty ditch water thirst, maybe his fear made me afraid not the one last time he got to steal from familiar strangers.
I should think, splayed
prying eyes to pick apart like black mouth cauls at the ready, scavengers perched in hard black plastic
wood veneer, "looky that, where'd it go?" the voice squawks, light reflecting stares
no room for friends or family time. It's in the dust of remembering that my mind gets to settling, those famous plastic ferns and fake flower bouquets that need someone to fill up the cemetery holes, the cover up for the being
empty cup where dreams go down to sleep and memories take us back just like that.
I should just plan on writing every time I get to thinking I miss the nothing that comes from roadside confessing. I'd be better off every once or twice a life, to let go, get consumed in knowing change ain't nothing at all, no hours of the day or night can make them, shaken; sometimes you escape and sometimes you are a victim the circumstances of alone.
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