Saturday, December 24, 2016


So here's the cog in that 
nature machine you keep 
talking about. That Dingman's
Ferry guy who keeps taking 
money for me to cross the road. 
If I was an Indian, I'd be dead; 
I know that. Those old Native 
Americans didn't really last 
long. 'Rally 'round'the flag,
boys', and all that fireworks 
crap. Bring down that head
on the ear of corn. Listen
twice to the sound of the 
distant meadow. Those are 
dead Injuns now  -  we've 
met them all before. There's
a detour where the road once
ran, and an ancient old lady,
still awaiting her man. There's
nothing any more coming, but
I've not the heart to tell her.
It's all I can stand just to look.

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