... addiction ..., ... Applachia ..., ... beauty ..., ... country ..., ... experimental ..., ... life ..., ... love ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... prose ..., ... the South ..., ... time ..., ... weed ..., ... written under the influence ...

Winterlapse

sermons over.
distant weed eater
screams in the
low, cool air.
the one bastard
disrupting an otherwise
perfect quiet.

afternoon Aristotle:
Stevie Ray Vaughn’s steel
voice rises like flour.
the serpent tongue wisps
of pungent smoke rise
carelessly from my joint.

it mixes in my mind
with spring splashes
of whites and pinks.

colors bound to suck
the strides from Winter’s
chilly death march.

were it not for blooms,
he’d very well debouch
his way from sea
to distant, shining sea.

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3 thoughts on “Winterlapse

  1. love love love srv… died too soon too sad…. yes, after church rock and roll… simmering in the spirit of outside… funny how the sound of quiet is disturbed so so so so eloquently on a delicious day as described… love as your words so soothingly slip in and out of a tune..

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