Nearly Beer

The day, hot and heavy...quiet, chemtrail'd vapor clouds, but for the dust of heavy gravel haulers, by the hundreds...hurriedly covering some deep and dark black project up, maybe, in buttresses of sand and stone, out toward the space station. Been going on two weeks. ..long white haulers, bury'n their bones, like a coyote will...for everlasting.

What I see from the porch, stays on the porch...mostly, but I got a feel, this toasty Samhain...somebody up high, let our ass hang out...didn't say a thing. Bastard Cretan's. It's scarey, sure enough, ok? The real 'spooks' around us, doing stuff they shouldn't do...every damn day. But they got a shield, a badge and a bad ass pickup truck...license to kill.

It's paranormal secrecy...an old cowboy...been gypsy'ng, and seen a lot of things. You see nothing these days. You fuck'n blind? You see something, you best start runn'n the other way...like a dog piss'n down its own leg...skeedaddle boy, but I don't have the kind of youth it takes, to do that sort of thing...so I must stand and face...whatever comes my way.

Couple weeks ago, some feller nearby, got his whole field dusted twice by some crop dust'n moron he never hired. Went out to check, later that eve...or next, found a dead road runner...lay'n in a row. They's kill'n something out here, bigger than mosquito's. They been check'n every bush from quad's, afoot and horseback...ain't for dope or GMO...maybe eggs, or little shrimpy green aliens...gonna grow.

Dem aliens, you know, do grow. They been tell'n us how worried they are. But it ain't Mexicans...oh no, it sure as hell ain't Mexicans...they's look'n for round here. These border lands, these lying times, strange things get in the way...of a normal day. This Samhain time, has a real story...just not sure what I know, if anything...it's all so edgy. What the hell...guess I'll have another 'nearly beer'. Gets me on. Heeaw!


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: google pic of crop duster