Coke Man

Coke-Bot?  Ah, college.

This is not a blog of nostalgia.  Simply proof I existed and that there's something worth continuing.  Hard to do at times with the current opinions of the people I once called friends.  But, as Kilgore Trout once said, "So it goes."  Their eyes will always see what they want.  The only thing I can do is avoid becoming what they say I am.  Hopefully this sickness goes into remission.  Here's something I hope speaks more of hope than of darkness.

Old Clock Radio

I was once told

By a friend

That music is a healing force,

So on a cold night

In emerald flowing mountains

I set my cancer

Down by an old clock radio.

I dialed in

A static-tinged gospel station

With vibrations strung

Through the depths

Of Old American Man—

Chapped worn hands singing

Through a golden throat

And joyful claps

Flying out like

Scared-off crows,

Black over

Blistering wheat field.

Pale morning sky

Cracked through silver mists
Rolling off those green hills

Steaming up to greet the newly

Crested Sun as that old clock radio

Still played.