Words: ‘passing laments on the highway of the blessed

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passing laments on the highway of the blessed by greg alston

lamentations and lust and sometimes we just fight making love for a moment and it doesn’t feel right these children a’ crying these dogs that don’t bark superstition and faith holding hands in the dark and i met you once on the way to success and where you are now i can only guess and me, i don’t know i must still be here waiting for the smoke of ambition to clear or just walking in this mansion of circling dreams with uneven floors and busted out screens and the wolves howling outside like the rains that lash so fiercely against these windowpanes or stuck in the lull lying somewhere between the stillness of nothing and something unseen and i had to get out the air was too thick all these freshly painted regrets were making me sick so i punched my way through these thin gypsum walls and i won’t be there to answer your calls and maybe i never was really, at all an aberration, a spectre a spook in the hall so send me a letter if you know how to write and i’ll read it like scripture in the dark of the night because somehow i forgot my lines in this play and the costume i wore never fit so much, anyway and these visions, johanna they never made any sense and now they’re torn and they’re twisted like this old wire fence and the farmer’s a memory his cows are all gone and i got drunk last night and i slept past the dawn and i woke to revise these thoughts in my head but perspective had left me over something i’d said and now there’s nothing but the hallowing roar of the lingering spirits that don’t dance anymore and i hear them, maria and how can it be these footsteps they’re always following me and i hid from you once and i might hide again and if you close your eyes we could try to pretend that laughter and love are always to find hiding like children in the back of your mind and this world has no rules just boundaries we define and illusion likes to smile when she crosses those lines and sometimes i can’t breathe sometimes i’m okay rising like the sun turning darkness to day

Greg Alston is a gardener, cook, father and some other things, too.