abandoned

Knuckle it all the way. Pay it and believe. All the sad twats crying because gramma aneurysmed or uncle's heart burst a corner. I want a place not to escape but an everyday place where I can stick my stupid eye upon a glass and see a Saturn. Then, then only sound is a the ice against the cicada backdrop.

far outside. there is no road. "the land i told you about, " answered, as if with a shrug. Vacant lots, fences made of wire and stake. I turn from the glass into myself to find that vague map with the stars on it.

I want that land. I want face down to breath all that face down stuff. You can look through your bar feet into the stars for that moment see more than a thing. There's wiggle room there.

abandoned places with cigarette buts and sixpack plastic trees, rough windowless verandas, and outsized wooden facades driving with the radio off to concentrate of the cicadas singing out of tune.

dry husks skattered on the road, bundled in 5 fingers and thrown into heaps. $5 a bag. one assumes that the path with clear, but the throat is clogged with bits of wings that flew only a single day