All roads are back roads here,
but I am still in search for the
more hermetic spaces with cairn
road signs and head stones in
the vegetable garden.
Now living in the Acoustic Shadow,
where dusk to dawn is perennial,
I hear the mobs though their
lips are tied together.
The lint of American antiquity,
with its aftertaste of
hardtack corn chowder,
is unchartered land.
Maps trace routes, courthouses,
slain fields. Fields of mortality
that nurse on the thoughts of
nation and sovereignty. Thoughts of
brotherhood and paradise.
Fields so generous each of our ancestors
could assemble under the
family flag and still have room
left to crawl.
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ReplyDeleteThe remix (take II):
ReplyDeleteAll roads are back roads here,
but I am still in search
of the slain fields. Fields of mortality
where dusk and dawn are perennial:
the uncharted land.
Now in the Acoustic Shadow
– the lint of American antiquity –
road signs are headstones, and
hermetic spaces (maps, routes, courthouses)
cairns within the vegetable garden.
I hear the mobs assembled
under the family flag, nursed
on hardtack corn chowder
and thoughts of nation and sovereignty.
They trace the aftertaste of brotherhood and paradise,
lips tied together, left to crawl
through the fields of their ancestors.
though
.
with its of
,
,
that.
//H