when I was a little bitty baby, my mama would rock me in the cradle.
I smell horse shit.
I did smell that smell months ago. It was an odd refreshment. She carried Herself on the humid wind that dwells in Bryan, TX.
I rode along the roads that polished my skin.
I rode along these roads on Lane’s 4-Wheeler.
His bold spirit carries Mama.
Strange how gravel can take you back and give you ownership.
There was a hint of fall in the air.
That is my god.
god is the season of fall.
he is the mystery.
he is the smell.
my god smells.
I heard a bird, but I’ve heard Her before so her noise doesn’t turn many cheeks.
She can’t turn my cheek.
I cross the road that used to be red dirt.
Red dirt that dusted my callused, oversized feet.
I saw development that may or may not hold meaning to Joe Weido.
It may or may not impress him.
It would not impress him.
A Bloomer Trailer.
A Range Rover.
Brings a false aroma of comparison and debt.
I have no interest in either.
Labels used to make me turn my head and flash a spotlight.
Now, labels are small.
Labels are vapor.
Puff. Puff. Give.
I traveled on to the next curve in the road.
The next curve brought life to the man who was Joe’s right hand.
This man could have been a puppet.
Not only a puppet, but a muscle.
I watched this timid muscle as a cinema.
A little one watching a motion picture that was not understood.
Herman’s home was not welcoming, and I always feared the sound of his driveway.
It brought a familiar smell, but a foreign view.
A weak doorway.
Stacks of newspaper for keeping.
Mama cows that didn’t look like Weido’s cows.
A man who would fearfully climb a tall ladder.
Herman trembled on heights, but not when Joe asked.
I want to know why Herman collected newspapers.
One day, I will understand.
Herman smelled of sweat and age.
I will never forget that smell.
I will never forget his bike or the soft squeak that she brought.
I wasn’t raised with money, but somehow Weido provided all that Jess and I needed.
I wasn’t raised with fat money, but I was raised with smart money.
A little lesson that I have yet to learn.
My recent visits to Carrabba Rd. have proven that money is rising and so is the concrete.
The water will dry.
The grass will turn and blow.
There are so many souls within a 5-mile radius of the home that rocked my cradle.
My womb was once simple and dusty.
My womb is now slick.
Slick + Streamlined.
In the glow of Lane’s light saber/4-wheeler light antenna, I see a MAMA deer who wants to HOP on the disco ride.
She seemed to feel cool and safe, and I needed the company.
There has always been something about a deer.
A skinny little MAMA deer leading her babies.
She clears the barbed wire.
She has no hesitation of where she might be headed.
We are the freaks.
We are the far-out fucks, baby.
THE FAR-OUT FUCKS.
You ever looked at someone and seen the same cloth?
Have you ever mirrored your demon?
Let us all have clear sight of who we are, and who we may become.
We may never know the future, so we must create.
Was Herman cut from the same cloth as me? Was it similar? Was it scary?
A similar strange.
We are the drum, not the beat.
We are the dust before it settles.
I am the drip, not the drop.
Through rose-colored glasses, we see an odd sunset.
Was I supposed to see the coming of the sun?
I missed it, baby.
I forgot to look.
When you’re strange