Trails dropped (a poem)

Thursday, October 2, 2025

✦ TRAILS DROPPED: SWALLOWED ALL THE COLORS WHOLE ✦

An outlaw psalm for the ones
drugged, dragged, and still breathing;
for the ones who watch the dragon circle.

I. The Trail Lost

When the hounds lose the trail,
that dog goes wild,
snapping at ghosts of scent—
my God,
the trail is dead,
the air is empty.

So much is wrong with me.
By what terms? By what law?
Who set the standard,
who mouthed the curse?
That mouth should be slapped shut—
instead, a whole generation
sent to burn for a few others’ profit.

II. The Heartland Rejects Its Own

A little bar,
the only one open on Sunday—
northwest Arkansas,
my homeland,
Tyson and Walmart execs,
the heartland dressed up clean.

Whiskey breath, mutters in the ditch:
get up, bastard,
get moving,
Bentonville spit me out.

Obnoxious ass-hat,
loudmouth,
heckling the Olympic curling team
where the locals just wanted
a clean sweep,
a night of pride.

Gasps and stares—
this town said no way
to my demeanor.
Dose this fucker, they said,
throw him out.

One double walker—
and I was blitzed,
but not from the drink.
Citizens circled,
asking if I’m good,
asking if I can sit up straight—
because I’m making them
feel bad.

III. The Chemical Takedown

Come and get me, brother.
I’m on my ear, on my ass,
put down chemically.
Here’s a picture—
can you geo-locate despair?

Disoriented—
this don’t make no sense.
I should be incapacitated,
but God damnit,
I sure the hell am.

Seated in an alley,
I raise the phone,
take the selfie—
send it out like a flare.
The dread drops heavy
once I realize:
rejected,
displaced,
the pride that got me here
now choking on regret.

The establishment slapped me down,
and I stayed.
In my homeland.
Breathing the fear,
the psycho air
we all have to breathe.

The sphere replays
the same damn scene,
swallowed all the colors whole.

IV. The Rescue

My friend drove up from Fayetteville,
found me where the picture said I’d be—
still seated,
still breathing,
still somehow transmitting
from inside the collapse.

One hand reached back
while the dragon circled.
One thread that didn’t snap
in the vacuum’s pull.

The locals moved on,
their clean sweep complete.
But someone came
through the dark,
proved I wasn’t nothing yet—
and that made the rejection
cut deeper,
made the displacement
mean something.

V. The Dragon Americana

Free and brave—
shut down the dissidence quick.

Outlaw shit—
it’s cool until they weaponize
the entire police state.

Behind it all:
the soulless snap
of a dragon,
dressed up à la Americana—
fangs polished with red,
scales wrapped in white,
smoke curling blue
from its flag-draped snout.

It salutes, it sings,
it bites the hand
while waving the flag.
A vacuum disguised as heritage,
a mouth with no soul,
swallowing colors whole.

My homeland promises freedom
and punishes dissent
in the same breath.

VI. The Reckoning

Saddle up, troops.
Head into our own,
scrub these streets.
Send all the bad apples
back to the trees that birthed them.
Scoop the good ones too,
if you must—
four families
for every murderer.

Chaos unfurls across the waving,
the flag shakes,
the stripes shudder.
Up on a traitorous crew,
treacherous,
over the edge.

We flirted with the fall—
no,
we flirted with our vacuum,
and it ate us,
straight.

The establishment slapped me down,
and I stayed.

Swallowed all the colors whole.

May those swallowed colors
rise again in the mouths of the living.
May the trail be found.