Paper Mill Town
A Prose Poem
Most of my creative writing is genre-ish, but occasionally I branch out. This is one of those experiments.
(Originally posted to my Instagram, May 27th 2022.)
Paper Mill Town
You are where clouds are made. So cold some days they’re held to you, a down that stinks of sulphur, a weighted blanket lied to—none of us admit that stench of comfort. You ate fields of spruce, of pine, in our abundance we wore amethyst goggles. Mercurial dumps like markets none of us understood. But that cliff was forced beneath us by a callous director that convinced the rest. When I left so did others. All our fathers spread out like fingers up nature’s sway back. My daddy could beat up your daddy and none of us were liars but all the work was elsewhere and all we had were sticks and stones to clothe us. You had brothers all along the waters. Half a decade took your blood. If they didn’t work for you they worked alongside you. Drive truck, build roads, blast rock, train and dock. Half a decade left behind no boats but plywood windows reflecting Oxycontin eyes. Amethyst saved for tourists, avoid those neighbourhoods, what ever happened to... But you are where clouds are made, and when I came back in a dream you clarified me in yellow reek and I cried happy. (Now, about them seagulls...) Photo credit @the_rubberboot_ninja
