“To: Q.” by John Strough

We’ve got imposed, invasive industry… the weeds are there, stuffed in cracks between towering cement structures. So too, we’ve got untouched landscape, which makes silver-bearded middle-aged men feel self-righteous about where they’ve been calling home. Beautiful sky and frostbite, all at the same time. It’s cool to say that you’re from here. But it’s not. Most def.

Hard to tell if the place is an afterthought or a goldmine, a well-kept secret. Can’t tell, we’ve really never left.

At a time when aging seems like out of focus tail lights blurred across the visual field of sleepy, inward eyes – this place is always there, at the end of the day, seldom changing…. here and there, I guess.

So there are days when we can flaunt it, days when we dream of getting out, and days of nostalgia over prior life meaning. I miss the days of randomness, zany carefree romance, having the time for experiments and life fetishes.

But philosophy makes me feel vain; I’ve got no time to stand in the rain; each day either a worry or a pain; still climbing faster without gain; denialed self-assurance keeping me sane;

haven’t seen your hair wet in the rain.

Profile: John Strough

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