Tuesday, August 9, 2016


Last January second I was
driving through the Carolinas
hell-bent for fury seeking
anything out  -  the old 
Winter cottonfields laid
sullenly down. There was
no rain or bad weather, just
a decent chill. The fields 
went by as we caught up
to them  -  pulled off to 
some uncontained dirt road.
No one even around, nor 
cared. The stuff was everywhere,
and we took what we dared;
just there for the pictures 
and the taking too. Had a
guy rode by with a horse
and a rake, I'd a rode with
him to forever. It's like that.
My language is beef and steer
though I eat no meat and can
steer you clear  -  of the things
that will kill you, of the water
that's foul and the dreams that
hurt and come to nothing after
while. I claim the next white
sharecropper's shack I see. I'm
going back, and you won't see me.

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