Byline: Scars and Debris

Buford Youthward

The perfect preface sets a context in Technicolor. My terminology is twentieth century but my intent is beyond modern.

In the most meaningless way. I get swayed by stories set on top of hills at 64th street on the edge of the tracks and the city.

There's no disgrace to watch this space, becoming one with your destiny. To be or become, the forever date we keep with ourselves. It's easy to overcome any claustrophobic social impasse, just get in the car and split.

We accept decisions in the moment unaware of consequences intended or otherwise. Our great fantasy to get one shot at going backward in time when we were innocent and bringing back the corruption that knowledge created. Ah, to dream.

If I was twelve years old what would I do, if I was twenty-two years old what would I do. Too late. Already did it. Now time to do again.

Living within one's means is a struggle when your means keep changing.

Tagged and bagged, grief rides with anxiety on the passenger side. Save it for another time, now battle for some wine against nepotism for necrophilia.

Being able to perform should be reward in itself but the line approaches diminishing returns. As in sex so in music and the arts.

Every minor has its major every taste has its flavor. Bleed baby bleed, blood makes the green grass grow. She leads me by the hand, she sees me for who I am.

She lets issues with love mix with my issues with anger. We beat, bop, rock and roll for more rancor. We get superstitious about something suspicious tasting so delicious now and how high lonesome sounds tempt us all around.

We have love to fail and barbed wire on the rails. A high sense of duty keeps the drive alive but the debris and scars left behind compel the cause to pause.

Gentle reader, the ugliness of that spectacle buggers my description.

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