blackrockcity_yearround sectional graphic

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By Andy Moore

How can I put to words that which describes, no, imbibes
that which we are, or may be, and just who the
hell are you to ask me?

Is it better to leave unsaid and unsung the
personal glorifications we are taught to shine and
display as plumage, as a strutting cock to peahen?

Please, describe what you see, is it in the
callused hands, or perhaps in the fine suits of dirt,
rancorous shirts daubed with grease and slag, or
perhaps the marks of sweat made steam? Maybe it's the
gleam of shiny tools in hands, toiling upon this
collective dream machine which eats all that flows its
way, yet feeds us all we choose to take.

After all, since the regular world would have us
fit in, line up, take a card and a number; here's your
job description, doctor, place to live, etc, etc...,
it is for you now to say, or, even not to stay. Maybe
now you'll understand my smile when we've reached the
brink, come to the place where the sea drops off the
map into oblivion...

This has become a comfort zone, this place where
people will step aside and allow you to hold your own,
r begin the slide. This is the place where we can
realize that as distance increases, so does the heart
diminish and categorize. This is the observation
platform in our lives where we can watch ourselves
dividing what once was love into what is yours/mine,
and deciding whom was the first to swallow whom whole,
soul and all, who won, who lost, whom gave up what,
and at what cost?

This is the place we return to, to find the flip
side, to escape the dark ride of the spinning consumer
dime. This is the place to which we run, this is the
home to which we come, this is the dirt we blow
from our nose, this is the sand which cracks our
toes/lips/hands and causes blood to mix with sand.
This is your place, this is our land.

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