La Crescent Love (Apple Capital)

Everyday is normal, like everyone’s business.

We know all, and they the same, familiar witness.

A lot of talk, a lot of talk, about that.

She died here, he was born there, that’s where they met and so on.

Small time drugs, a little crime, closet-depression, some suicide, cancer a few times, but until next time we wait.

Nothing has changed.

And when it does.

We know we know them.

A main street and 2 to 4 to 6, count it, crossings; small grid on a big scale.

Lifestyle for some, a couple handfuls of stop signs and a few buckets of white paint.

More populous in the ground than above, almost, growing as we speak, on both sides.

The dirt in the summer blows for miles in between the bluffs, North and South ridge hang on both sides.

Cornfields and hay near blinking towers, red and blue in the height and the seasonal mist.

In my head, an outline of the United States of America is on that slope of a hill.

Rubbing my eyes.

I see where I come from.

Cars roll into the countryside to find their souls.

Across from La Crosse, you can get a drink and sit and chat with a local anytime.

I promise.

The fall and spring bring a scenic thing, robust rain or not, something is happening.

Where parades pay homage to drunkards and whores.

It’s not boring, or insulting, its real and it happens.

Bring aspirin and condoms.

Or neither.

The locals love to love.

Word of mouth travels around like trucks on the pavement; out and about, but naught will mention it.

Rivers run near, there is plenty of water and sandstone.

Trees:  some new, some full grown and overgrown.

Eventually from streets to woods, the valley’s crest to the hill top; vegetation ubiquitous and varied in between.

A library, a police station, a few eateries, a few bars, a grocery, a pike, thousands of people, and silence.

Still silence, everything seems in the distance, realer than now though straight ahead.

The nights are dark and vast, across the great divide some lights.

Over in the distance people stir.

Drunk stupor, money lost, domestic abuse cases pending, but La Crescent is always away from La Crosse.

Yet juxtapose.

Good times are good times, and when in Rome.

Drop a pin, make a peep, the sound seems to echo for miles.

Time to think of the dead, count the seconds in between.

Time to think of the new born, I forgot their names, but they have heard of me.

Cozy, but comfort so surreal it can be a mute hell to those with a broader view.

Its hard to tell.

Ancient times before the fur trading, not much was aroused:

Maybe animal.

Maybe Indian.

Maybe Settler.

Maybe not, no apples yet.

A hundred years back a few families, maybe three, and my sister and friend have lived where they once came to be.

The old houses stand erect and the new houses seep of pride as they cast their shadows and assertiveness.

Street lights blink on and off to save energy, or because of bad wiring.

Its hard to tell, there is no one to ask about it.

Families, some small in size, some large, take advantage of the space.

The village, the town, the city, whichever.

Cut tight, not long, but lean.

The overlook where Mom saw UFO’s and the house we lived in years ago sit high up top.

There are some orchards and farms, not far from what people in big cities call entertainment.

La Crosse for drinking and some smoke, possibly green.

La Crescent to rest your mind most of the time.

All of the people pretend not to enjoy it, but they like the sights they’ve seen and they know it.

Oh they know it.

Close to heart, and I miss it.

Small town blues.

My what a scene.


One Comment to “La Crescent Love (Apple Capital)”

  1. Nice terry ; )

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