The Cabbage Patch III

words and photo by: Telegraphy


The angry teenybop mob danced around the dicoball maypole in the middle of the street.

With patented green back note shoes, they flaunted upheaval in the ranks of inebriated parents in the rustic cabins. 

Four score and seven years ago we ploughed a field ontop of the ghost of another field only to see it grow cabbages.

The weight of my green dept laiden shoes slowed my march down the main drag, just enough for the tax man holding liberties torch to trip me down the alley stair case.

 The stress from the worlds best job can only be seen in the eyes of the enraged resident.

"Hey buddy, can you hold this door open for me as I close it in your face". "Sure, why not. I can only lose this race".

Night time sky lighted by the scandalized woman sense of  heart brake.

Crickets in there evening dresses chirp, and then swig. Chirp, and the swig back another. Stumbling around with gaseous malodorous language, they ingest cultured class ideology's, one garbage-man at a time.

Hey! That victim of thoughtless class warfare is situated on that monogamous bus stop bench and is eating his own hard earned money. "Someone, STOP HIM"!

The bath of salts gave birth to a 30 year old newborn. Strutting down the center of the road like a mayor in which it was bequeath to him in a drug induced haze and walked to his liquor plaice.

Empty houses taking deep breaths of releaf after their buzzed and somewhat inexperienced collage tenets leave a trail of unfulfilled loans for a different city.

Four score and seven years ago we ploughed a field ontop of the ghost of another field only to see it grow cabbages.
Hula Hoop girl, oh Hula Hoop girl. Make another swirl. Serve sprouts on that vegan breakfast so that my stomach can hurl.

Getting back to the dicoball ritual that so many had partake. The moon lit frost had covered their hands. Like a relieved crackhead, they stuck them in the fire of their youthfulness.

Meanwhile clowns from across the boarder panic with horoscope readings of past events.

There I was on the sidewalk, pulling a flower when she told me the shortcomings of manhood. "You men are all the same", she said riding a paper centaure. 

Excuses the gesture of Santa Clause, he dose not know what he dose. Walking down the sidewalk in the early morning solstice fog. He gathers curses from the curb, stuffs them in his pocket and exclaims, "Here, I've pick a fine one. They will go well with my celebrity gauges".

Window washer on his bike from the other side of the pane of glass clears our focal plain with reason and harmony that only a visitor from space can understand.

He doesn't know me. Only I, he, or she is willingly to partake in this gestured dance of romanticized children, soon to be established elders of this patch and then wait for the grand finality when our seeds may be sown into this soil.     

Four score and seven years ago we ploughed a field ontop of the ghost of another field only to see it grow cabbages.

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