Byline: Lunar Landscape

Buford Youthward

A resistant, reluctant writer finds no better space than here.

Laying blame with the greatest disdain, although pretty lame, still doesn't stop anyone from signing on. It's an easy setup.

Catching up with past ghosts and pure pleasures is plain good, so long as we don't get caught staring at the steps when we should be stepping up the stairs.

The struggle of our newest idol knows no bounds. Our hero makes waves, our villain creates sparks. Disaffected by old crow, our greatest loves are bound to turn into Mr. Hyde before our eyes.

I get put off by fake meta-textural references and two-phone-call journalism masquerading as collections of short stories.

We think we love the art of the outside; the disenfranchised believe in the right to feel just a brief, a not so long, hot flicker.

Adore then adieu above and beyond expressionistic interludes. Time's good for gettin' the good gravy all over his and her ego biscuits.

Results, recognition, recreation and relationships are all that matter in the great, grey matters. No Zen life can loot my tome.

Moonlight, moonlight on a moonlit night, may I bathe in the beauty of your glow light?

Trip it to the weird place, laying low, letting go. Insignificance in the face of power has gone and left me pacing on this crazy stage of life.

Waiting to perform, I conform forth and form on down the road. No man should have to apologize for what he feels in his heart.

Movers, shakers, heart breakers, difference makers, weekday warriors and weekend rock stars, step back. I land on your lunar landscape, and set the scene to survey.

A better space, no resistant, reluctant writer will find.

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