417 yards to the second "O" in Coors.

The world of my grandfather no longer exists,
no more open frontiers,
quantity before quality,
speed before dependability,
nothing so unique that it cannot be copied.

Nothing to last more than a year or two,
a world of the mass produced,
disposable products for disposable people,
nothing inexpendable.

A future bought with muscle and hot iron,
blood and burning cordite,
morgaged for plastic and convenience,
lost to the almighty bottom line.

No more masterpieces.
No more individuals.
Freedom sacrificed for the illusion of safety.

Ok, I got nothin here...

Grown men who play air guitars,
keep their crack in little jars,
whilst those who dance, convulse, and sway,
speak to me with mouths of clay.

Stillframe life, with fries or onion rings.

Empty beer bottles from around the world,
1/8 inch of dust on the television remote,
clothing that is at least 20% duct tape,
bits of bent steel,
at least 7 different kinds of wire,
miscellaneous tools,
a heavy winter work coat,
one small container of honing oil,
one pair of steel toe work boots (brown),
one pair of steel toe work boots (black),
one pocket knife,
one tin of bees wax,
paper towels,
Kiwi polish in black and clear,
1 gallon bottle of distilled water (2/3 full),
keys,
loose change,
three whetstones of differing grit,
two kitchen knives of varying length,
one partial bottle of pepto bismol,
used books of all shapes and sizes,
one partial bottle of Yukon Jack,
one partial tin of mink oil,
one partial bottle of Vics Vapo Rub,
three pair of new socks (unopened),
three apples in varying states of decay,
one suction mount table top vice,
a cutting board,
two and one half garlic bulbs,
hand cut bushels of rosemary and oregano,
a dwindling rubber plant,
one half bottle of multi-vitamins,
two bath towels,
17 packages of top ramen,
cotton balls,
one horsehair buffing brush,
one bottle of liquid shoe shine (black),
one partial bottle of liquid dish soap,
four pounds of dried spaghetti,
various canned foods,
one unopened bottle of rubber cement,
newspapers.


Things that live on my kitchen counter.

Winters 'acomim.

Its Tuesday, but it feels like Sunday.
Today it was overcast,
a wonderful light drizzle that smelled of the ocean,
though I'm a full 4 1/2 hours from the coast.
Mixed with it the smell of mountain cloud mist,
the unmistakable snap of autumn cold that tells me there will be snow on the ground soon.

It has been several years since we had a really good winter up here. We are overdue for one, to close the roads, shut down power, and send all the city transplants scurrying for the safety and cover of their climate controlled origins.

The mountain is waking,
her air is restless,
and the parasites on her skin have become bothersome.

Drinking alone on a Saturday night

Once I loved a girl,
red red hair,
sea green eyes,
a ready smile,
a kind heart,
a gentle soul,
a body to stir the passion of even the most devout ascetic.

She smelled of cinnamon,
cloves and orange peels,
fresh tobacco,
oak moss and girl sweat and warmth and sunlight on a cool day.
When she laughed my skin would prickle with goosebumps,
when she spoke to me my wits vanished,
my tongue turned to sandpaper,
I became a capering fool for the slightest bit of attention.

She was born on a Thursday,
at 6:45 am,
the same year as myself,
I never told her how I felt,
she laughed at all my jokes.
I never made my move,
I didn't want to seem rude or uncouth,
she smiled at me when we passed in the hallway,
I didn't want to spoil anything,
didn't want to intrude where I wasn't wanted,
didn't want to be put in my place,
didn't want to learn that lesson.

She married another man,
a face more attractive than mine,
better smile,
better body,
more promising career.
A velvet voice,
and poison in his veins.
He was born on Saturday,
two years before I was,
sometime in the mid-afternoon hours,
with hatred in his heart,
a mind with discipline,
but no control.

They lived together for three years,
she and I grew steadily apart,
she wrote me a strange letter,
he didn't approve,
I was obsolete.
We couldn't laugh about the same things anymore,
we couldn't talk,
I couldn't see,
I couldn't hear,
the world was changed for both of us.

The wheel kept on turning,
he beat her to death with a wrench,
on a Monday,
at about 8:47 pm,
because he didn't like the outcome of a football game,
it didn't even make the front page,
I heard about it from a friend,
I missed the funeral,
I have never been to that part of the country,
I plan never to visit.

The bluegrass version of Julia Dream,
smell of Old Crow Bourbon,
taste of midnight on my tongue,
bringing unwanted memories,
reserves from the writhing ball in my stomach.


Once I loved a girl,
with red red hair,
sea green eyes,
a ready smile............