A Long Pit Stop

A Long Pit Stop


it’s dirty here

reticent, claustrophobic,

the clouds are borrowed from another cities sky,

a city where dreams come to die,

a concrete tone smudged across a sunless horizon,

the people here reflect the weather,

a town filled with the strangled dreams of nameless people,

a city built on the failed wings spans of diabetic vultures,

a city that swallows the smiles of it’s children,

a city where talent drowns in self pity, envy, and fear

sick people laugh with empty chuckles,

stolen tears from men with no eyes,

artists digging aimlessly into a hole that has no bottom,

planet sized character flaws leave an aftertaste of denial,

a city where friends forget their meaning,

where strangers look to tip your canoe,

the storm windows are bolted closed,

the blinds stapled down to keep the sunlight out,

the breeze is just a fairy tale,

aging days warped the way pretty girls once looked at me,

memories filled with broken swing-sets, stale bread,

flat soda and smoker’s breath,

file cabinets over flow with the same relationships,

like a bunch of Mr. & Mrs. Potato Heads,

same people just different sized body parts,

old resentments branded into a day dream,

resentment like a medieval carnival,

one filled with dark puzzles, melted mirrors,

and a ride never designed to exit,

a nightmare of twisted mechanics and flickering lights,

hustlers behind masks wield their shaky magic,

preying on the failures we were all taught to keep secret,

resentment like a schizophrenic Charles Bronson,

an introspective warrior swinging his sword,

at all those who have done us wrong

resentment, an ominous fog draping its iron veil

in front of every last bit of soft love left,

resentment’s desire is to cause grave diggers to dig,

dig and dig more,

so deep that no one will find it,

though as we find out,

the pain can’t be buried,

it simply disguises itself as an apple on a tree,

and again and again we reach for it without warning,

then eat it,

and can’t understand why the same pattern of sorrow,

follows our every movement,

like some caboose hauling the baggage of a thousand dead ponies


By: Bryan Matthew Boutwell / LiveFiction.net