Above the open road
Below the open sky
Away from the clouds of crowds
Shadowed in the close of crows
Below the open sky

Summer is a sifter
Separating the go from the gone

Write an open story
Above the open road

Call it youth or freedom
Call it the future or America

Be above or below
Get out and go.

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Sideways glances and meanderings
Staring down some dark alley street
Cobbled and
This sway of me breezes free
seeking peace
not seeking.

Blood rushes through these veins
but ethereal do I sometimes feel
when falling.
Sweet surrender to do we offer ourselves to each other
and truly believe this is it.
Who are we kidding?

Death has no mercy and sometimes won't even let us die
but instead waste away inside of
So it be
so it be
but not definitely..

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The daring were punished. Oh, how they were punished. For their transgression of assumption: public mockery. For their foolish hubris in believing that one could get away with such tom foolery: A dressing down by the town jokesman (and I use jokesman loosely as anyone in town would and will tell you that he was only installed as the town jokesman thanks to nepotism. After all, it's his father who is in charge of humor.
Yes they were a sight to see, the daring. The sad faces of such dissapointment as you would assume most of them saw some sort...

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The moon would never be the same again.

I could tell as I looked out my window tonight that now that he's so far it just, would never.
They all say "Looking up you are staring at the same stars so he can't be far away", yet still in my deepest fears I've realized tonight happens to be a blue moon and the stars have already begun to change without him by my side.

How could this be happening when we said we'd be strong?
I love him.
But i supposed In essence I killed him.
I encouraged him to...

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It starts out a little top heavy
with a first line so weighted down with its own importance
that it has to sink to the second (or even third) stanza -
the spark of an idea around which the softer lines crowd.
It usually has a trail of water drops leading up to it
because all good ideas strike in the shower
(it's always the shower)
and will be lost in the time it takes to comb or dry or dress.
It's never quite happy in its own skin
but lacks the will to be anything else

It shouts to...

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Half a life lived
within four walls
the once unthinkable
now familiar
with endless routine
a strange comfort
a life reset every day to run
the same sweep of hours

One small act
stealing from my future
thinking to be happy
realizing too late
the mistake
giving hostages
to my good behavior

Moments of quiet
hours of noise
time in the yard
never solitary
taking comfort
in the dark
giving in
the dark

Twenty years
one more small act
now here I am
outside those walls
a life lived as half a whole
now to be lived

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the fog sat heavy
in the valley cauldron.
each intersecting limb
was the peace of a friday
morning, interrupted.

we were singing
all the songs we had heard
before as children, and we
thought of having coffee,
but we didn't.

what does it mean
to be caught under a tree
at the break of what would be
a taciturn day, but wasn't?

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The hillsides have been finger-painted
with Larch trees turning yellow
like smears from a child's hand
that Mother Nature will bleach away within the month

I stare, thinking there must be a pattern to it.
Birds eating seeds from cones and dropping them in flight?
Early colonizers after a fire?
Unwilling to believe in beauty without structure and reason

Dusk arrives with its gift of quiet
As if hosting it here in this small moment of time required recompense.
A perfect moment of stillness
before I turn to go inside and life's motions begin again

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White bedsheets flapping in the heavy breeze. Orange shrapnel from withered branches impotently scrape the stiffening linens.

I never saw an owl in my backyard, nor a black cat elbowed and shrieking on my fence.

But I can smell the wet detritus of autumn by the cellar windows and drip, drip, dripping from the gutter.

The doorbell. A banging on the screen door. Shaving cream in the middle of the street. These things, too.

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The body is the lie. The woman who speaks to you face-to-face
with a carefully controlled flex of muscles around the eyes
and the upward curve of just one side of her mouth
that tells you "I'm amused at whatevever joke you just told"

The polite look of interest that cleverly morphs into concern
with a downward press of eyebrows
and a slight lean forward accompanied by a sympathetic noise
they are all walls that look like doors

You would know it for the avatar it is
if you realized she never reaches out a hand,
never bridges that social...

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