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Through hiraeth's lens, age's
wisdom - the grindstone of
responsibility - those late 90s
summers and spring's dew on the
schoolyard grass, was it all so
strenuous?

I have tattooed over the scraped
elbows, the tree sap, the cuts and
bruises. I wonder if I'm remembered.
I wonder if my ghost will sail
back to those fields after all is said and
done.

Back then, the winter meant snow, and
July's sun was just enough. Sticks were
whittled to swords. Trees were castles.
Hours were minutes, and the moon was an
uninvited guest. Strange how sometimes we
couldn't wait for it to end, and now we'd
pay anything to take it back.

     
     
     
     
     
Took to the long road      
windows rolled down      
hard hot breaths      
of dry wind filling the      
lungs, beating the skin      
     
The unkempt road boasting      
cracks and potholes became      
a canvas for the scenery      
as weeds popped their      
heads out through cracks      
a group hallelujah to the heavens      
A worship to the hot burning sun      
     
There is something wonderful      
about weeds growing through      
concrete. An honest freedom. A risky dare      
to the authority that could have      
them killed for no reason other      
than their geographic stance      
While the sun almost melts their      
soft leaves to the tarmac that      
begs for the nutriance of the      
liquid in photosynthesis      
Their posture retains it's      
confidence and strength.      
     
The blonde in the passenger seat      
using the heated wind to style      
her nylon like whips of hair      
beat the headrest of that      
seat like a merciless viking      
flogging a bare fair skinned back      
Has her clean bare feet on the dashboard      
Her head nodding      
in time to the bass beats      
some techno radio station      
is filling our ears with      
Turns and pierces my soul with      
her green eyes smiling      
     
"I'm a weed"      
she softly mumbles      
     
"I'm as hard as concrete"      
I whisper in the nicotine of the      
second hand exhale I blow at      
the stained windscreen from      
the newly lit Camel cigarette      
     
"I know" she retorts as she leans over      
to take the warm beer saved in      
the console to her lips      
"The sun glares through      
your cracks"      
     
Then she pulled her dark      
spectacles from her cleavage      
and      
covered her eyes      
     
-x-

It feels like hell whenever you're around
No one's allowed to make a sound
Go ahead and demand our absent respect
Wherever you are evil sadly abounds

You make living hell on earth
At birth I must have been cursed
Knowing I'm just your property
It the thing that hurts the worst

Why momma stays with you I don't know
My dislike for you only seems to grow
There must be a way to break free
You're not a father but my foe

You're bucking the trend
she screamed
What fucking trend
I asked her

Write something nice
something
soothing and peaceful
to make you feel good
in this troubled world

I don't do nice
and I never feel good
I said

She had no idea
how much pain there was
watching every word
swarm over the page
hungry to find its place
a dictionary of locusts
chewing the guts of my soul