by Steven J. Rogers
I prefer to take the train while I still can before social media induced astral projection, or
lavender infused chemical data transfers become the norm.
The secret visage of America’s dirty bedroom it’s okay to draw on the walls now,
if it’s broken just leave it.
Dirt caked under fingernails, in every nethered crevice.
Some towns he says,
“they don’t like our kind here.”
Maybe he means the poor, or artists,
or rail travelers.
It doesn’t matter
and it’s the only thing that matters.
As mysterious as the bipeds or
the celestial mysteries that laid these tracks time is nothing and everything here.
Nothing is complicated. vile highways without end
covered with mechanical hearts of desolation. Guts rancid with cigarettes and anger.
the trail cuts through the heart the boreal pines and green river.
The wheels of progress crack in glass.
two paths — a desert
the heart or
linger in the guts.
Give me my prickly pear and thistles.
Steven J. Rogers is an avid canoesman and beardsman from Northern Wisconsin. Alas, he currently lives in Los Angeles, California. Steven is not an absolutist, so he is willing to accept the idea that there might be a hell. If there is, he’s pretty sure that it would involve writing bios. He has a BA and MFA which he’d happily trade for some beer money. To learn more about him, and his upcoming publications please visit www.stevenjrogers.ink.
Photo credit: borderhacker via Flicker, All Creative Commons