There’s a place we all take our burdens but never quite shake them off. It’s some pastoral place for me, somewhere else and far away, a mad and natural joint where noise doesn’t take over and drown out every thought, every emotion, every sense of human decency. And then I come back to the wild lands and the bucolic turns sterile like some hospital row of plastic and formed stone and the cars going blurp blurp at every traffic light that ticks and tocks like some dead man’s heart on a stick. I went from peace to the land of Prickly Pete and his army of Prick People and every set of annoyances that come with … but I saw many gray-stained cedar clapboard cottages framed by blossoms of sun and sky and moon and green peaceful lawns and periwinkle doors leading to maybe damage but most likely light – light at the back door, stepping out to the sway and yawn of the tall golden grasses just before the world dips down into some cranberry-colored bog and then sapphire-blue waters and then the road that bends and curves around the whole little village sweeps me off to cliff side and the thunder calm blue bruised straits of some American Gibraltar and I step onto the trail running off from the front yard of the candy-striped lighthouse made of the brick and blood from over 150 years ago and the cliff trail takes me along the edge at the end of the country and it’s all Sonic Ocean Water blue and peace and breeze and the quiet comfort of nothingness yet everything the way it should be and it was the carrying place of all my burdens collected like love in a bowl and I sat still in the soft grass atop one of the quiet cliffs and the world roared softly mad all around me and I looked out merely to disappear, the great blue watery window giving me a clear shot of maybe Heaven or the other side of Eden Street or Buddha’s Palace under the sun and thinking about the still standing after all the kicks in the junk and making it to the edge of the world for me it was, the edge of the world – The End of The Country – and I did it all without knowing, just stepped out to the end of the board and fell off – then the walking alternating from high cliffs to the magical forest where the sun broke in and pulled apart the curtains just a bit and shined its candlelight-like light all over the leaves and leftover night, swirling the wild blueberries like carnival rides in the green of some summer long gone now – and my soul still not melted, still walking away with burden in the heart and maybe some things can never be washed away
… and I built a sloppy little cairn among the others out there on the edge where a man cannot walk anymore and I sat in the golden lawn and on the flat stones trying to make sense of it all as the waves crashed in below and then lullabied the tide pools to swaying sleep and it was all a real good place to go and I felt pretty well about it all and then the calm was suddenly sullied by some loudmouths from the cities down below and I ached again a little bit and got up and walked across that golden lawn of late August in the Land of Maine and I didn’t even look back at the people puttering around like the loud fools they were; no, I didn’t even look back because I was nothing like them and they will not destroy what I can remember.