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395

Heading down 395

With a head full of gold rush stories

An eye full of mountain ranges

And a gut full of the first solid food ingested 
In days,
The dirt on my fingers is starting to taste
Of a memory I was born so far after collecting,
And I wish things were harder.
I dream of another good work day,
And when the check comes.
And how "hard" I tell myself things are now.
I dream of a hellish work week collecting onions with the first wave of California migrant workers.
Jealousy,
You smell so bitter.
I wonder how you taste.

◄ Security I Guess

The Mountain Poet ►

Comments

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Rachel Bond

Thu 10th Sep 2015 14:55

Interesting.

Preeti Sinha

Tue 8th Sep 2015 08:34

You write stuff I love to read.

<Deleted User> (13762)

Thu 27th Aug 2015 16:50

Hi Corr - I'm a sucker for road movies and poems that reference highways and drifting through landscapes with intermingled images past and present - so thumbs up from me.

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