It's all hushed in King and Love
craft's country
and all of us might
talk
funny
but we don't really speak
to nobody so forgive us
for not making
eye contact.
Leaf peepers pepper our backyards
and try not to get twisted
in the trees
we the fairy people stay huddled
and aloof
we'll talk if we're on the clock.
However
our hamlet is open to anyone
who can find it
Thick fog gnaws at our headlights;
“How long are we on this road for?” buzzed Boston girl
“North Pembroke road gets longer the more you're on it,” I reply, still feeling cider slither in my throat.
“Don't say shit like that to me right now!”
the two plastered boys in the back laugh, knowing that
the uneasiness of outsiders here is what
gets us through Halloween's
orange glow, no moon.
Pinprick night sky littered with
the exhale of dead explosions
and it's so quiet you can't
even hear my cats snacking
on the marrow.
This land's got me
sutured to the woods
and I've let the wounds
dig in
and
fester
at this point.
We're all blood letting
to let the foliage look
less muted.
there are enough of us
old apple cores
scattered on the ground--
I never know
how to feel until we've left.
craft's country
and all of us might
talk
funny
but we don't really speak
to nobody so forgive us
for not making
eye contact.
Leaf peepers pepper our backyards
and try not to get twisted
in the trees
we the fairy people stay huddled
and aloof
we'll talk if we're on the clock.
However
our hamlet is open to anyone
who can find it
Thick fog gnaws at our headlights;
“How long are we on this road for?” buzzed Boston girl
“North Pembroke road gets longer the more you're on it,” I reply, still feeling cider slither in my throat.
“Don't say shit like that to me right now!”
the two plastered boys in the back laugh, knowing that
the uneasiness of outsiders here is what
gets us through Halloween's
orange glow, no moon.
Pinprick night sky littered with
the exhale of dead explosions
and it's so quiet you can't
even hear my cats snacking
on the marrow.
This land's got me
sutured to the woods
and I've let the wounds
dig in
and
fester
at this point.
We're all blood letting
to let the foliage look
less muted.
there are enough of us
old apple cores
scattered on the ground--
I never know
how to feel until we've left.
Header photo by T. Guzzio.
CONNECT WITH VINCE:
Vince Rappa is a recent grad out of Lake Forest College where he stumbled into an English degree. Testimonials for his writing include; "He uses his words in ways that make you want to lie on the floor and waste away your days listening to experimental jazz," "As a good friend, I read them like I was asked to," and "That sure was a poem." Until he perfects his craft he can be found in his room playing Street Fighter. You can follow him on Twitter @MistahRappa.
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