bog

Frog Bog at the carnival campgrounds, compound. Slamming the hammer, making these slimy, worn, brown, rubber-foam frogs jump around to land on rotating, spinning lily pads. It always harder than it looks. Some strange capitalistic sense playing out all in hopes of winning a giant stuffed animal that’s bigger than two people put together.

Marshland, swampland, Bruce Springsteen cassette tapes cast away in mud. I remember the locations of all my dreams and sometimes flip through them in the scrapbook in my mind. I wish I could transmit them to you somehow. Via mind meld, or something. There’s so specific and not of this world.

The Meadowlands stink of Mafioso decay. But everything leaves its mark. Grasses and nature and biology that is beyond me. Wildlife’s haven right next to Route 3. These brown and green tones; Taking off my glasses now and now I know how Monet felt. Hear the call of a wild bird, and hear the flapping of her wings against the air, long neck craning out, beak partly open, gazing, suspicious. Mindful. Soft dirt transforms into thick mud after a good, hard rain. Boots stickily make their way through, search lights out, ponchos beyond their usefulness. It’s wet everywhere. The moisture can’t be stopped. Hot humid days where that dampness become airborne. Poor British redcoats stomping through unfamiliar New Jersey terrain in their woolen uniforms. God knows what that chafe looked like. We Americans can barely stand it ourselves. But the beaches were a nice trophy. I miss boardwalks and Jameson lemonades, riding my bike and getting sunscreen in my eye. The hollowed out shells of Sandy Hook military bases. Expecting to see a ghost on this federally owned land. Salamander sasquash. Beach Yeti, cold Brisk Iced Tea with the snowman on it. Those 12 ounce cans from school cafeterias. God, my childhood diet was awful. I am relearning and unlearning so much. Going through territorial organizations. Trying not to get bogged down my it all. Remembering to underline. In hopes I don’t forget. Fickle memory. Emotions strong, some lukewarm and changing. Everything in flux, always. Cranberry bog, like i mentioned yesterday. Who stomps them now in the time of coronavirus? When will we be free?

Author: Roe

29. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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