A Tune Like Smoke and Mirrors.

I want to just keep creaking and swaying and pretending that I'm a pillar of a community that rallies about me like flotsam about a dead branch. A flooded town of doweries, unpaid ransoms, celebrated porn stars and deviant plans bent on production. A valley brought down with the first railroad line cutting through it like smoke through a straw. Collections of dust, like stamps posted upon dry shutters clapping in the farmhouse abandoned long ago when there was a fair that came through every year to keep the children from running terrified into the stupor of crickets and flowing water. Oh I just went too far with them; those thoughts. I built a tree fort that resembled a fortress and convinced my best friend that we were deftly manuevering ourselves away from the clutches of the malevolence next door. We were somehow loose upon a world that was of our creation. The yellow jackets swarmed from the hole and they were the fourth reich and we defeated them with a can of gasoline. We kept evil at bay and looked out over a field just waiting to be turned into suburban sprawl. And the riding lawnmower murmured a tune like smoke and mirrors all wrapped and held warm in the glow of summer and adolescence. We weren't mistaken: this was something free of wrestled thoughts.