Silence, Sadness, or Innocence

Through the woods to grandmother’s house, 18 years too late.

under the broken pine tree canopy
of an ancient tribal swamp
a hydrated choir splashes
against my window
like christmas bells ringing ode to joy;
fluttering moths against the tumbler

in the distance
rails rattle rhythms and battle hymns
from an hymnal adjacent to antiquity
connecting cargo from sticks to plains
across the rushing Ouachita
berating it’s audience of would-be dreamers
from a horn fueled with fire
fading into whispers of forgotten ghosts

backs crack helmets on fertile soil
stained fluorescent against corporate campaigns
peddling patriotism in hypnosis’ doses
brought to you by our sponsors
ending eventually in 3
stretching out the misery
until there’s no one left but me…

digressions distract from bonding brothers
gripping deep all emergency harnesses
hanging desperately beyond the horizon
hard rock polygons mock and beckon
from a depth to eclipse the achievements of man
to a death from a storybook — shocked;
mounting a ceiling fan

first steps tug the pants leg
caffeinating hopeless hard cases
issuing insights into individuality
with damn near no room left for regrets
opportunity’s excess emits eventually
to the ruby cheeks of innocence
from the cheeky rubes of permanence

man, who sprinted a marathon
gets away with cars shown in the movies
in getaway cars never shown in the movies
on a mission to reinvent the present
from a path to adorn with fingerprints
trailing a life-long sentence
running on in endless fascination
from the roll and a lighter
to the taxes, tolls, and penitence
whether silence, sadness, or innocence
whether silence, sadness, or innocence.