my trail of dust

In the days of my fireball, venomous youth, I lived under the deluded auspices of a man needing nothing. Rarely did a compromise cross my lips. Rarer still, was there a span of peace amid the struggle.

Nowadays, amid the decay of these higher and higher numbers... it’s all I can do to roll out in the morning and finish my route.

Ellen’s uneasy with my teasing about the bullet in the chamber. I suppose, it isn’t so much a joke as a check I'm waiting to cash, a ticket to another place. To keep the peace, I’ve learned to toss it into that dark, well-stocked chamber of things better left unsaid. But I know it’s there.

The other day I had a dream. We were having a yard sale. I sold off all my shit to the neighborhood kids: a dollar for Dad’s banjo, a five for that faded yellow Fender, two bucks for a suitcase full of cables, old photographs and God knows what else.

Then my ears stopped working and the sky opened and I slid through my clothes, up into the late morning grey... disappearing without a sound. And there she was, looking skyward into that cascade of crumpled dollars, staring through me and my trail of dust.

 

my trail of dust
april 14, 2007

 
 
Home                  Musings Main Menu                    Next