Here is a poem I like:
No asphalt here, all concrete streets,
cracked, torn and rattled,
above centuries of adobe mud.
I’m from Petaluma and I never know
How to handle being home.
There’s a rich history of fine wines,
methamphetamine, OxyContin, football.
A high school town, where it’s
easy to love my friends but they’re
stuck in the mud
under the streets.
Telling me they’re alright, it’s okay.
The slow waltz they play so well.
Baseball caps with the sizing
sticker under the brim shades the
recession of the nose from years of
insnufillation: dander, willow,
dry grass, cocaine, cow shit.
Benjamin William Blair (2009)
My hands hurt. I can’t write right now. Talk to you later.