Wednesday, August 19, 2015


All these mountain greeneries and Sad-Sack fountains
mean nothing now : they've gerrymandered the graveyards
out here into their own pavilion.  Forsyth; Lipschitz; Wallengerber;
Wayne. Just a hundred and more delirious names. Every half-mile
another abandoned barn tells me something. I'm out of the well
and into the drought. Seems like, for sure. The underground
water stream percolates up to drivel a spring at the crossing.
I left yesterday morning, just for something to do  -  headed west
on some Route 1502, maybe read wrong, maybe 512. County
State or Interstate  -  makes no never mind again. At the Lehigh
Tunnel, I went right through. Fat Pennsylvania girls at either
side of the Wedgewood Diner.
Find me that statue again of the soldier with the lily-white rifle.
The bucket-top helmets worn by the cops, locally here, are made
lies of by mad motorcyclists whizzing by helmet-less. The streets
are paved with brains  -  and survivors alone remain to roam.

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