To weed and to harvest

New job in MA farming, new lease on life. Wrote this poem on a paper bag after looking at old photos from Arizona. Also a picture from the beach by the farm, horseneck. I go swimming as often as possible. Once my computer is fixed I’ll do a more extensive post about the new farm, the move and the new ‘life’. Until then it’s just me posting short little items from my iPhone. Poem follows:

To be, a fear factory.

It’s a fear factory out here
I’m manufacturing fractures in personality parallels and drawing lines between lives.
The factory pumps out black smoke to cloud good judgment and thin out my safety net atmosphere.
The fear the facts when I react to words spoken out of born again mouths.
Dike dike dike.
I hold hands to hold back the fists that clench my words so strong and reach far to weed and harvest. Weed out the thoughts and harvest the heart that beats itself till bruising becomes purples and reds. Beets I sell two dollars a pound I picked with my own hand.
Daylight runs the cost of the fat I bought to burn before I buy the farm. Lay down the gold locks and breathe out the manufactured black smoke. Just to be empty. one more time.



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