past the wing of the airplane
and I see white hills
and blue seas
with occasional patches of flickering lights
the sun coming up in the east
what a beautiful land it is
I don't recognize it
like a fairly tale of blizzards
and tundra in drifts of freshness...
any time now
I expect a herd of elks
to run by
ghost-like through the white plains...
a blanket covering
this country to keep it warm
and safe from the little devils
and angels laughing
in a dance of fornication sweat...
I wasn't born in this land
in the deserts of Texas
or the cobbled streets of New England
or the vineyards of the west
but I feel like the misplaced son
that's gotta go, gotta stay, gotta be...
Free.
I have no choice
but be imprisoned for ever in this net of "freedom"
and tell you that it isn't free
but could be.
I have no choice...
and if I did, that would be
my choice.
America,
I don't want to run ghost-like
through your white plaines
of weightless clouds...
I want to run freely
through your macadamed streets,
cotton fields, and endless plains.
Neat don't you think? OK I did not write this. My son did... This piece is part of a "chap-book" by François titled "Theories on sardines, cats, and much much more" published in 1993 while he was attending college. He gave a signed copy to me as a 1993 Christmas gift. François recently published another book, "Beer Songs For The Lonely" using his own publishing company. He signed it as F.K. Needles. See for yourself at http://www.newbellevillepress.com/.
Un peu de Français ? Il y en aura certainement de temps à autre. Tout cela (blog et patati et patata) est tout nouveau pour moi. Laissez-moi un peu de temps pour me rôder...
Allez, à la prochaine.
