In Fredonia, NY

In Fredonia NY, the townies sit in clans in Barker Commons, watching the rest of us stumble in broken-heel stupors down Temple. Leather jackets quilted with crowns, running down in breeding grounds of filth and the sub-political bullshit that tells them to spit at spics and colors. I watch them watch me, hate them hate me, in the spiral of friday nights.

I Fredonia NY, I take mornings up slope streets, shifting in my jeans with the skinny pursed-lipped girls, who judged themselves for their sex and sex, more than I ever cared for. You see it in the mother's faces, walking their all-american dogs at dawn, assuming our sins for us. The criss crossed fire that breaks our faces roars in valleys beneath or skins and beneath our belts, and when they hate themselves for thinking I hate them, I smile and say it's never been more ok.

In Fredonia NY, I run in circles on wired wheels, through this town, dunkirk, and back onto brocton and erie, carrying understanding that the separation, beautiful in it's bastard light, is only a figment of imagination. There is not place like this, because that would imply there was ever a difference to begin with.

In Fredonia NY, I can count days in leaves and snowdrift and tumultuous weather patterns, trudging through cigarette ash and the magnificent miscommunication between nature and life, lived from Bennet to Forest.

In Fredonia NY, I celebrate my life, the ones before it, and the ones birthed every year, bathed in creekwater and gin.