Soot in the Valley (a poem)

Thursday, October 2, 2025

A field confession from the hillside fires, the floodplain, and the endless cough.

I swear I started a fire,
I now fight—
all of us on the hill,
tweakers, who inspired,
lit a bottle rocket,
and who were not tired,
shot the hit, dry grass,
on the tracks, the train still rolling near,

coughing, black lung,
onto the hand, the glass,
the rocks and gravel, the dirt,
i had a goddamn shovel
and worked like i was
fireman number one,

i worked hard,
i imagined i had purpose,
for fifty five seconds,

what fools,
the burning,
the hillside scatters
in the fog of tweaker war,

i’m sure that had nothing to do
with the warrant
that would follow,

all the horrible breaks free,
at the same level,
we all in the valley,
know it full well,
every time the river rises
and the dike fails,

i’m out,
skin of my teeth,
an empty weed film container
with just the scent,
and all my teeth
still present
and accounted for,
mostly,

there must of been five of the eight that responded,
lets fight the crisis we created,

eyes like coal,
3am,
on the back of an engine,
wishing i had some more,

and this begs for a close,
but i’m still hacking up that shit,
a throughline of my hell
is the soot i keep breathing,
and acting like we don’t
live in hell,

over and out,
return to your hole,
alice and chains,
some stolen brandy,
Christian Brothers,
sister sister,
hear me out,
i can’t take this reality,
let’s keep sedated
and hope this dream comes true,

i’m still coughing today,
and that was galdern 1993.