We got ghosts in our longjohns
And I’m dressed to be late
By the warm smokey campfire
Drinkin’ all the whiskey
I was undone on the train tracks
I was saying goodbye
And I didn’t mean a single word
‘Cause I was spread like a thread
If you ever need a fool
I’ll be the grass to grow
Where you can always find me
Howlin’ at the moon
I am floating as if observing
And not returning home.
I am a ruffling cloud nearing dusk
Upon a serene and hot evening
At the lake smelling like campfire.
I am nonsense trickling off into night
In rattles and clacking,
As lonesome restlessly lays naked
Aside discarded sheets
And a light layer of sweat.
She stopped to look at me;
Of course I noticed,
It’s what’s come and saved me;
In the garden that we’ve planted,
In the life that we’ve harvested.
So long nights are star-lit,
Wisdom is a campfire,
Pride is found in a solid axe
And love is what reminds me…
Just like a well worn pair of leggings.
You’re there every night!
Roosters wake me at the break of dawn.
I smell well worn leather
And anticipate your footsteps
Coming to say good morning every morning.
At night we would all have our tents and sleeping places set and sit around a small campfire. Making too much smoke and light would mean alerting the people we didn’t want to alert. A smart choice.
The coyotes would howl every night. Coyotes and wolves. I hoped they were coyotes at any rate. They never came close though, they were always off in the woods in the distance corralling some innocent prey.
It’s funny thinking about the way nature works without human intervention – naturally this is part of the reason why I chose to head west. In New York ground was ruined most likely forever (or at least scarred) from human’s intervention. There is always a scramble, an urgent scramble to the top, for the most, to accumulate all the wealth, riches, property, land, gold, clothing, food… It’s different understanding the true necessities of life.
The coyotes don’t live with luxuries like leather boots or cutlery or fat bank accounts and they get along just fine. Us humans though, we feel it our duty to posses planet earth and declare it a free for all.
The waste, the abuse, to be entirely honest is there even much beauty to go along with it? I find it hard to believe such transformation of the land is healthy for mother earth.
One thing I enjoy on the trial is the amount of time I have to sit in the saddle and watch the wilderness float on by.
[note: to read the full epic track my land]
Pastures I walk on
Where my window-less remains.
Crickets and butterflies,
Like this dusty ramblin-rose.
I am not a soldier,
Bandaged up and bruised,
I am a the lone cowboy
Pictured and framed.
It escapes the wild warriors
With my heart: dear, forever.
Like a copper pan at the tin store,
Stars in my campfire.
Cyclical moon which bringeth thy sun:
Boil over warm coffee.
Because I love this way,
Where my window-less remains.
Smokey bandages flutter through the evening sky.
An autumn sun burns the day’s light
Through whiskey breath and campfire.
Cooling breeze shelters the afflicted from blackened breath,
Dire, sister, dire.
Animals have no home, foraging between un-agreed upon lines of human traffic.
Chain link fences only survive through this madness.
And I the wild wonderer
In peace’s embrace
Sharing splendid solitude
With sunset’s hues
Tickling my toes
With warm lapping water
Pants then be rolled up
To half mast thy knee
And off in the distance
Summer night noises ring out
Young men of mischief
Swamp frogs lament
Bat fluttering hither
Mosquitoes racing thither
And across the calm lake
In desperate moments of light
The last mooring boat
Settles in for the night
Campfire left smouldering
In the wake of many (hot)dogs
And I, toes now dripping
Make my way to slumbers edge
I’m a walking cause
A symptom without diagnosis
An affliction
An avoidable situation
I’ve got a heartbeat
Pure intentions
A rambling rose
With nobody to hold
I’ve got a tender touch
Late at night by campfire light
Life in burning eyes
With splinter clutches
I’m a justification
A resolution
Breaking the good/bad
Souring the miscomfort
I’ve got footsteps
Leading away from me
Large strides and
Slight pigeon toed prints
I’m a walking cause
A symptom without diagnosis
An affliction
An avoidable situation