froming broth

the battle axe is dull. resting on the porch next to the caged black bird. the moss and the wet granite and the overhanging limbs. the backwoods beauty. engine hums, flap your gums, it's time to start the party. the froming broth is on the countertop. wrap the trout, shave the stout, walk into the madness of the early morning night. stop the truck at the edge of the bridge. it's out or in, lose or win. miles and miles later, you've seen 7 different towns that belong to noone. the potbelly stove in the corner of the cove. the atrium, the plastic bags, the tail that wags. it's all new, it's all you, it's the new way and it's here to stay.

yearning and earning

back in the old folky days, there were no thoughts of truck drivin ways. i sat and wondered about the glow of the finger and the mighty moon... the interrogation scenes, the kino pravda journals and the smiling goon. now, the bratwurst mumbles to the diving instructor and the brakes are firmly applied. dreams of red geese and golden gander...the slippery floor and the jander gadander. missions slip and fade and sunbeams break the border with ease. the stars glow bright without a fight. yearning replaces earning. a life is for learning and the grave is for turning. i'll deliver the packages, you check your mail.