Treasure Island

Noel Marsh

(4/6/74 / Tucson, AZ)

Rural Life


Rugged
And laid back
Kicked
Into
Out of style
Holding back on the balance
Of life’s little
Little
Little
Little discomfortures
If that is even a word
I’d take the first bus out of this 2 ½ horse town
Except the busses don’t run here
That’s rugged
But where I am
We are (am)
So here, I am
Seems a little circular and
Well
Slightly uncomfortable
Doesn’t it
It should
Well maybe not
My unease at this all
A mess
Of bloody proportions
Seems a…
Haven’t when been down this line in this poem before
That’s life here
And maybe crediting the town with 2 ½ horses might be
Advantageous or over compensatory
Because this place is small
And sure
I bet that whatever pseudo gangster rap hit is playing in the big city is
playing here
Bumping out beats and drowning out the bleats of my neighbors goats
Can you believe that
Once
Long ago
(ok so not that long ago)
I was in metropolitan heaven
A starbucks on every corner
And at least one stand alone espresso stand in a half-mile radius
The funny thing is that in this town of 1 ½ horses there are
At
Least
4 stands to get coffee
And that ratio, horses to mocha, would astonish any learned man
Or any village idiot
For that matter
And that somehow makes me
Urges me
To move this discourse on rugged life
Human abandon
To politics and the president
But
Unlike his daughters
I don’t so easily give to those urges
Or soon to be public displays of literacy
(after all you are reading this in a public domain)
Now it’s been so long since I started
(ok, again not really – maybe 10 minutes)
That I don’t remember what it is I wanted to make you feel
Maybe something of love and appreciation
For a life I have chosen
To try and make things better for the ones that love me
To try and resurrect a stalled and fastly fading writing career
(after all, when I wrote regularly don’t you think I would have known
fastly isn’t a word?)
That alone should make you think and wonder aloud
About how someone with such a low command of the good queens
English could fancy himself a writer
Somehow again I feel that urge to point out that
You reading this and all
Seems to justify my writing it
And leaving you
Here
At this critical
(ok not so critical) juncture
With no closure
And no rhyme
And no reason
Just an end to this strange homage to my madness and slightly
creeping insomnia.

Submitted: Saturday, April 29, 2006

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