It still bothers me

Nearly every night I dream

of being in my old farm house

with the sagging floors

and mildewed wallpaper

and everything disgusting they thought needed burned down

how the scent invades my subconscious as I drift in and out

of REM

I was dancing again

on my old wooden floor

with the sagging 100 year old timbers underneath

and Granny was there

and I was free.

And we were picking beans

in our big metal bowls

and I was okay

it was all in control...

But I cannot control

the way I feel

Hate the dreams

they are so real

And I wake up in a sunbaked paradise

that I will never belong to...

But there is nothing for me back there in that place

they burnt my crumbling farm house to the ground

No peace and comfort can be found...

Nothing left but an old stone chimney

and the memories that invade me as I sleep.

And my father stood at the kitchen window

looking out at the desolate hills

wild, free, overtaken with briars

and at that moment he couldn’t help but love my mother

she had farmed it all growing up

managed to lift herself up

and escape

a rather impoverished state...

He said,

I know now why I love you.

Why my love is so deep...

It takes a hell of a woman

to climb mountains this steep.

Came home to nothing

everything gone

everything sold

garden overtaken with weeds

left one man in charge

to take care of everything

but it was gone when he returned

He asked Lucy to hand him his coat

and walked out the fucking door.

It was just a few cows

and a mule

didn't want to feed them

sold them off then drank up the money

It was just a little bit here and there

over the years

again and again

but boys will be boys...

He'd come home piss ass drunk

and she'd wash the sheets

not understanding why

men drank enough to pee

He grew up stealing drinking lying

being lazy as karn

then asked grandpa to buy him

a little old farm...

Down payment got him in like flynn

never paid it back again

he sold the mules

sold the cows

got his own place

then sold ours as well...

special place in hell

for those that like to steal and lie and drink

had the nerve to say

granny and grandpa should be buried on their own land

you sold it

it don't belong

to them.

I walk on this red soil

it looks black in the dampness

but it's really yellow

this is not a poem...

grasslands ancient as the hills

but lacking trees

they keep sowing grass

bailing hay

80 acres at a time...

don't hardly see any rabbits

My home has changed

it's ashes

up some holler

I don't live on anymore

New owners

are blocking off

the graveyard road

county is letting them do it

I'm helpless

so I just open the gate

and walk up it.

I havne't written in a long time

other than inside my own head

the words are beautiful then

on paper

meaningless.

I thought maybe if I started to try to write something

pain and anguish would come out

and maybe I'd stop bitching so much

stop crying so much

they wanna vax a strange mutation of the common cold out of existence

this world is stupid

i hate it.

no thanks

twenty hours a week

isn’t my type of job

I need at least 40

preferably 50

60 is nice as well

I like to be worn out completely devoured

by the concrete

and stinking feet

and back pain so hard and long

it takes my breath away

no time to sing songs

20 hours

just pisses me off

screws up the time

I could spend

doing other shit

besides

working as a temp

so some corporation doesn’t have to pay their workers overtime

she asked

if I were coming in

no thanks babe

no time to give.

They don't make it very long

after the pills take ahold

45 is old

for them

Some make it to fifty-six...

most don't.

I watch and read and browse and see

generations being wiped clean

from this powerful thing

we've created in a lab

Some say they are bad

but deep inside

I know

they are just a hurt little child

aching to heal the pain.

I watch the obituaries

again and again...

1977, 1980, 2001...

daughters and sons

And I can't help but cry

doctors pushing pills

their healing a devilish lie.

I wasn't kind enough to him

I should have chatted him up

more

the man

sitting next to me

in the nice coat

way too big for his skinny body.

And as I signed my name

I saw his address

'homeless'

I cried

Momma... do you have any money?

No.

Me neither

he's homeless

it's cold.

Well, she said, let's just take him home.

I said turn around

I'll find him

she laughed

Sarah, you won't do.

And I cried

His name

is Samuel Owens

and he's probably

cold tonight

and I sit around bitching about everything

never truly grateful

for anything

While men like that

shudder on the streets of prosperity

It got to me

maybe I can find mr. Owens when I get my taxes

slip a bill to him

since mom won't let me

bring home anymore strays.

Occasionally we bathe together in elegant spas

Water cascading over his long flowing hair

but it is a dream

I fear...

A horrible dream no one needs to believe

Occasionally we run through sunny pastures

picking daisies

falling in love

like they do on the cologne commercials

or maybe perfume??

None of this will do, no he never loved me enough to walk through a field picking daisies but sometimes I dream he did...

On occasion,

we are just sitting there

by a fire

reading books together

and we never

get far enough down the page

no, it's rather insane

to be that close and reading and who gives a fuck about books

when fucking is all that needs to occur...

On occasion

I dream of his hair

and remember

he chopped it off

so all I have left

is dark eyes and thick lips

And... I dream about it

on occasion

when the occasion calls

for tortured sleep.