The scent of Copperheads

Burning through
Archaic sentiment
.....But burning
And an appreciation  
An appropriate passion  
For what is not gold
But the tint of Calx  
rusted root
Or the rust of a tin can
Planted in soil  
For generations
And the dangerous space  
That leads the Copperhead  
Ahead of Chevron tiled slither
A scent of foreboding fortune mixed with feces and intent
But comes to some
The smell of cucumbers
To some plain foul  
As flared and frightened nostrils  
Take it in  
And exhale no art
Of mimic  
The raw colors of the world
The value of salt  
As it adds to the human condition  
Or reflects  
Truly the grimy  
And honest  
Often fuck you  
Often Jesus Christ  
Cornerstone, of humanity
The weary and brutal  
Filled with pissed off seekers
Rattling keychains  
That hang from pockets
Spilling Velcro unicorns
In colorful plastic  
Burning through ..  
and these things around me  
A pilgrimage of sorts
To the Buk
And his awareness :
....Need to find art ...
To seek it in the ally’s  
Or the eye of the convict
Where some might see  
Only concrete and grey
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