Switching Gears

Rereading sparks reflection.
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Shocking feeling:
To realize you stand
over your own corpse.

An older version of myself
has passed,
like shedding snake skin.
Outgrown...
the remains are cast aside.

I recognize the face at my feet...
decaying, as a memory at rest.
Dead lips part... in fear, I start.
"Bury me"
pleads my poor old body.

And so I do.
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Returning to the Southern United States has been a rocky landing.
Like,
who would put enormous speed bumps on a jet's runway!?

The observations, conversations, and general maturation of ideas
during my sprint abroad...
provided plenty of momentum
for a smart sting when I
walloped back into America's concrete defenses
face first.

Pissed,
I naturally grabbed the nearest pick-axe to pummel the offending cement
in a fit of rage and frustration.
Vis-a-vis the tone of my recent posts.

I don't make a good political pundit,
wouldn't want to be one anyway.
Vomiting venom onto my keyboard
doesn't exactly complement my style.
And is not gratifying.

I have two different kinds of writing.
Starting now, my metaphorical spitting shall be grounded
with other such rants in my journals.
The private ones.
At least until they can count to ten
and learn to play smart.

So expect my political jabs to flirt in and out,
as opposed to taking center stage.

In its place, I intend to continue writing stories as before.
Now from my home in Durham.
With occasional wanderings, of course.
Yes, the unthinkable has happened.
Nate is Nesting.

So to my readers,
Thanks for suffering through my soapbox sermons.

I now present:
The Diaries, Observations, and Musings of your Barman.