And some paths only lead into darkness.

When you break it down, this blog is stupidly pointless.

Blogging: a futile exercise in time mismanagement.

Tugaloo Dam

When night leaves with its dreams,
Morning bursts over the mountains.

Man behaving less than an animal.

What we have here is a woman fishing

About 100 to 125 feet from a hydro - electric dam where water is

subject to rapid rise and turbulence. I would call this a new definition of stupid.

windows

Through a window,
Into the past.
Seeing, hearing
The years that now
Have become still.

decay

The art of decay

Someone once said to me, "I want to live on
the flip side of perspective". After mulling it
over,  I am not really sure what that
means.

It's All About the Bacon.

Oh,wow, they’ve finally, actually made bacon toothpaste.

grilled poofy.

aftermath of abandonment.

out of monroe

The Barn.

So, my time is near it's end,
The days of future now have come
                to pass.
Evening descends,
Arrayed in its callous disregard.
Neglect has reduced  me to exposed
                 and ruined timbers.
Life's storms have sheared
                 my skin off-
The facade is gone-
The emptiness of ruin
Exposed for all the uncaring
                 to ignore.

Once a treasure house of varied blessings,
But Time has only selfishly taken
                  never  offering restoration.
Even with the advent of the decay,
Still, Time greedily used me
Until I could offer no more
And then cheaply cast me aside
                    for another.
Along 88, above the Little Barren,
I collapse in the neglect of
                    the uncaring.
But.
But, but one has stopped
And enquired of me,
And I feel the flickering warmth
Of Hope one final time.

Whispers of dreams

a vision lost

A view of life devoid of hope.

an indepth poem

                    Life Unscripted

.................
............

Insectual art.

The art of insects.

a tenuous hold, and maybe not

Though I may be alone,
And the ground given away,
And hope be but schist,
I will hang on.

A sign?

a sign of times

out of monroe

             Monroe

And I overhear the tales told
With no prepared purpose
By the long weathered farmers
Planted on the front porch.
The eldest leans forward
And rests his elbows
On his aching knees.
He listlessly holds a cigar
       (Telling so much of his efforts)
But his bright blue eyes reveal
The truth of how he mastered the fields.
         Along 677.


In their only clothes that are dirt worn,
The husband and wife
Traipse up the front steps,
Resigned to their lives...
Still hoping for a future.
And the laughter of the children
Chasing chickens and goats
Interposes a specific contrast.

The cash register opens and change
Is made at the counter
For varied dry goods.
And I overhear the whisper
Of the keeper
Giving another
Thirty days of credit.
He slumps his shoulders.
He wants to help,
But even he can't pay his own bills.
From behind the counter,
A curly brown haired girl
In a stained, pink jumper
Scampers with mischief.

Iron weed and golden rod
Splash color along the ways
Inspite of the Cross Roads dust
Covering everything,
Turning the white-washed boards
The color of tobacco stained teeth.
And the old man with the
         Blue Eyes
Smiles at the baby cooing
In the young mother's arms.
He knows that still a future
Is to come as the dust
Settles from a passing truck.