Precision is not poetry
Fall gold explodes between evergreens on Highway 24
On my way to DC to speak with the President about America
5 minutes of hope, a campaign, then all is lost in the “process”
A Sousaphone at the back of my head humps and pumps
Music is in the wind. It’s always time to go!
Terri at the gym here in the Comfort Inn
David engineers a slow train across the morning sky
Quails, snails, martinis, and baklava, crutches across the asphalt
We have finally broken away from the mother ship
The gravitational pull of New Orleans remains a tragic, soulful empathy
Mythology more than any estimation of truth
–MR
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