bushwhack bakery

I bushwhacked and baked and finally made it to another one. There's no one I'd rather be with right now. Just me. The burnt horizon and lavender sky. I can sit here in the dust and love it. And miss nothing. The oft companion - the tender belly of nostalgia - can't compete. If I can get here in old age, I don't need to fear it.

It's not quiet, though I might mistake it. The cicadas quake. The National blares. The light lends me perfection. It's not the fresh sweet bread this time. Or the pungent holiness of basil tea. Sure. We ransacked the forest of its light. You always had better lines than me. More raw. More real. Tight. But this gorgeous wasteland perfects me. I don't need to turn you on from here. I'd like to stay. My mother's sweetness still matters to me, but this emptiness is exactly what I need, and it's such a relief.

This needle can still go down and ride the groove. Someday my own music will spill from this place.