Dust Dancer

a short story / by, Donn Goodside

fictional memoir of a homeless person

Dedicated to Savita / she does not appear within these pages.

Foreword ___

Fictional memoir of a homeless person that most of us choose to ignore,

hoping they will just go away.
This is not a Heroic tale of rising up and reclamation of what was lost.
Rather, the inner workings of the mind, of another, fading from view
As they relate their memoir to his or her imaginary self.

Biography ___

Donn Goodside, born Saginaw, Michigan 1943

Received Honorable Discharge / U.S. Marine Corps. 1960 -1964
Attended Saginaw Valley State College @ University Center, Michigan
Donn Goodside is married and resides in New York City, NY.

Author’s Quote:
" There is an element of truth in all fiction /
unfortunately, there is an element of fiction in all truth."

22 pages / Spaced @ 1.5 / Times New Roman /.12 pt. / 5,500 words approx.

Artist Proof / © 2002-2008 Dust Dancer Donn Goodside

 Dust Dancer ___

"We all gotta eat our own ‘peck O’ dirt."

People occasionally move away. The houses, do not always find a happy family, to move in and
keep the place warm and dry. Such is, as it was with my old house. When my Mother and I lived
there, cold water pipes would freeze every Winter and soot covered the windows all year long.
Warm baths and home cooked meals of ‘Yankee Pot Roast and Baked Potatoes with Sour Cream
& Chive, did not exist. There were, in its stead, imaginations, swirling in cigarette smoke. A chair
that rocked constantly. Dirty fingernails and damp musty clothes filling the bathtub. Then, the
house became empty of us. Other people moved in and moved out, over the next thirty years. I
had come back, seeking the warm childhood, that never happened and found the house
unoccupied again.

It always seems to be Winter, in Michigan. I was unemployed. Unshaven. Divorced and my shoes
and socks were wet. No one I knew, lived on the street anymore. I stared at that cold house,
where reality slapped my face. I saw the distortions of my life, reflected in dirty windows.
Making my way ‘round back, to the ‘Coal Shed, now empty of its shale, ‘the door never did
fasten securely,’ a shoulder shove is all it takes, to open the door and let the smell of dead air and
years of burnt bacon seep out with a sigh. I wandered through the empty rooms that seemed much
smaller, than I remembered them as a child . . . and COLD, ____ damn. It’s cold? The cold had
settled into the unpainted walls, floors and ceilings. No amount of heat, could warm the memories
that I had of this place.

She still rocked in her chair. She still talked to the walls or railed against the husband, that had left
her.

The small coat closet, on the other side of the room was empty, except for one wire hanger, which
I hung on the last remaining hook. I squeezed into the closet and turned around, as a dog circles
his spot for the long night to come. I left the door open, just a crack, in case Ma’ came back. I
had returned once more, to the womb of my past.

The memories do not playback, as an old black & white movie, all assembled and chronological.
More like, samples and scraps of photographs and an intermittent shushing of white noise. The
remembrance that I experienced, was out of sync, having nothing to do, with the memories that I
had. The cold finally numbed my brain to sleep. Occasionally, I would wake with a shiver and a
start, when the old wood framed house creaked and settled. Or maybe, a strange memory crept in,
possibly belonging to someone else, that had once lived there.

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wince ___
Mother and son sit alone in the cold
A kerosene lamp with dirty glass
Paints the room ochre and dust
Rock Cold
wince

She pushes back up against the night

Lighting Lucky Strikes / one after one in chains
Talking to demons buried deep within the swirling smoke
Rock Cold
wince

I sit unseen under the table

Watching the play unfold
Trying to understand a past
Before I was born / before I became
Rock Cold
wince ·

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Waking slowly and regaining an upright position was painful. My bladder, insisted it was time to
wake and leave the house and find a tree in the back yard to relieve myself. I watched the mist rise
and was momentarily alarmed, to the possibility of being seen, although it was still dark. A blue
&white Police Car, pulled up, and an Officer with a flashlight, climbed the front porch steps,
talking to the neighbor, who had called, about a suspicious stranger seen earlier. I waited, quietly,
shivering, behind the bushes and tree. My feet began to freeze. My first instinct, was to show my
self, after all, ‘it was my house once.

Then the sense, that I was homeless, with no visible means of support, a vagrant, realized.
Incarceration was imminent. Eventually, the Police Car left. I too, walked away. Leaving the
coldest spot, I have ever known. Years have dragged on. My feet still feel the cold and damp, of
that back yard in Michigan.

The Doctor says: "It’s the blood pressure medication, that makes the extremities feel cold."
Perhaps. Personally, I think, it’s the cold memories of that childhood house, that root my feet to
the frozen past.

Life be like that, sometimes.

I walk the streets alone at night. Most of the houses, already have their lights turned out. The
Moon plays hide n’ seek with clouds and tree branches. I listen to backyard dogs barking and
whispers of overgrown grass, at the ‘widow Bowen’s, swaying slowly as she herself, may have
danced many dreams ago. Fences of picket, wire, and mesh, cast shadows, onto the cement
sidewalk squares, alluding to snares and pits of demons, waiting to devour my thoughts. Behind
the clapboard framed houses, gardens grew, sparse and twisted.

Sometimes, I stop and stare off into the nothingness. Thinking. "Snow as cold powder, measured
in more feet than me. Drifting up against wood framed houses, Icicles dripping off eaves. Bare
black branches cracking ‘staccato, in the Concerto of my childhood dreams. In a world, where
the clouds are blue and the sky dirty green. Life is, what it is. Cold and mean."

The Autumn clouds gathered. Rolling slowly across the small town quiet. Oak leaves tensed in
anticipation of the wrenching winds to come. The birch trees, tightened their iron grip and braced
their bark against the chilling. All things joined in sighs, breathing in the last long warmth of Sun.
October’s Celebration colors emerged, for their frantic dance of dying. Spent, then drained, the
cold shadows fell into nocturnal slumber. Memories fall away in swirls, mere dreams of another
time. The world slips to sleep, as man, once again, prepares for war. " Moon of many names,
come out from your hiding. show your face of blood. Shed the pretense of ‘romance. Falling
leaves whisper your true nature and changing seasons announce, that ‘ten colds, will thin the herd,
before the realization felleth, that WE, are the harvest."

I realize I’m talking out LOUD, to my self. There is no audience of appreciation.

Every day I am borne anew, through the mud and sludge of decadent dreams and some vague
remembrance, that I’m connected to my past. I stare at a mirrored reflection that I do not
recognize. My cold pinching shoes feel too far away to tie, as I try to remember, where I’m going
and why.

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I dream dreams as a child
and it is with fresh eyes when I wake
That I see what has been written
in previous sleeps
Another world / the other world
Runs parallel
Perhaps a step ahead or behind
Always just out of sight
I try to capture that which is lost
The world that was meant for me
Is not the world / in which I live ·

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 My face feels the sting of one hand clapping. My eyes focus on the world outside of my self. The
colors change from ‘Dali-esque vibrancy, to being all sooty and smelling of sweat.

Ahhh, it must be time to go back on the road. The mirror is not just glass upon a wall. The mirror
is also memory flashbacks. The ‘works of our hands today, are molding images, for future
reflection.

I had tired of the life I had been living, so I drank. I drank a lot. I danced with bar flies and any
woman that could hold me up. Slow dancing, One two, One two. Hair soft washed, inhaled
warm. She fit into each step, anticipating. We moved as one, with Drum, Brush and Bass. Our
minds focused on being in the moment. Discarding worldly problems. Only we existed, in tune
with the croon, of my ‘pretend voice. Expressing my soul, because I was unable, unwilling, to
break the bond of our dance. We tried to keep that eternal fire of our youth. The shimmering, blur,
of colored lights, spun around the semi darkness. Our steps, scratching salt into the hardwood
floor. Then the music stopped. We held onto that moment. Extending eternity. Then consciously,
embarrassed, we slowly drifted in opposite directions.

I still remember that dance. I never did ask her name.

Another day of the dead, as I stare at my empty bed. I see shadows of the Moon, as time falls
behind. Love had grown old and turned to dust. The papers of Divorce, have finally been signed.
Disappointment, has replaced my once young lust. Words can no longer describe, what is left of
my mind, as once held hopes and dreams, now slowly unravel and unwind. The Sun turns dim,
and grows small upon the western sky. Clouds from the east, join with clouds from the north and
grayness comes into my world. The ecstatic colors of Autumn leaves, silently fall to ground. The
Dog Winds of Winter, called forth their biting, knowing, she was no longer there, to warm me
with her smile.

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The Fall leaf’s / color'd up
So ___ I found center and faced South
"Might as well start walking my ass some more" / I said to my Self
I had gone back home / it wasn't there anymore
I had no future / ‘cept my next step
Hungries forced asleep
Dead-air feed'n on my innards
And yet ___ , never had I felt so alive
I feel the wind push me further along the highway
Pushed by the driving force of Peterbuilts and Reo's
Death a dark lonely step / just to the left of shoulder
WATCH OUT ! for falling rocks
Walk-a-step
Impact on the endless lostness
Despair unworthy of the energy required
Onemindedness
Step Impact Step ___ Step
Taillights stop
Door open
Light on friendly face
Smile ____ Jump in as a grateful alley-cat / seeking shelter from the rain
Sot, footsoak, water-blister, blood wet, of another years-end drizzle
Feel the warm / fragrant above my own Zen-stench
Step step Now ___ , ride·

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Something was missing in my life. It has been missing all my life. The Reflection. Seeing my self,
in someone’s eyes, seeing me as I am. Most people saw me as I appeared. Not as I am. Others
saw me as old, but not grown up and they wished, I would go away and bother someone else. It
seemed like, just yesterday, that I sat across from her. Looked into her eyes, hoping for the
reflection, that said , ‘I want to be with you, for eternity and beyond.’ I did not see that reflected
in her eyes. She did not see me as I am. I am missing her, in my life.

The scent of Fall’s burning leaves, had brought back memories of her. She had asked, "How I was
doing?" and I had spoken, as a child in pain. Seeking sympathies relief as a puppy. I should have
seen the hard leather coat, the motorcycle grease, and known, she was not impressed with me. I
was vulnerable and in need of her strength. She was bored with me and needed more than I was
capable of giving. She turned away and was gone. As I castigated my own weakness, Sheila
came around the corner, speaking with her soft eyes. I barked abruptly. She recoiled as if slapped.
Thrusting my hands deep into my pockets, I shuffled through the dead leaves of an empty street,
wishing I had someone, with which, to share that October night.

He spoke, saying ‘Follow Me.’ / I said, ‘I ain’t No Priest.’

Barely had the air escaped my lips, that my life turned left, veered into chaos and the magic left
me. The protection ripped from above my head, as the wind rips the splines of an umbrella,
turning it, uselessly inside out. The Earth continued to turn slowly, slightly askew. Rolling
towards the Sun. Warming one side, then the other. Till day was done. Night had come. He
continued . . ."Do not be alarmed by the Roosters rude awakening. This has always been. There is
no escaping the purpose of our being. Wagers are placed on our inability to see, through the
illusions of dreams, that we think reality / belief in our own immortality. We have forgotten, that
we are the repast’. The hunger, sated for now. Asleep under the Moon, dreaming that we hear
cries of the wolf. Roll over till day wakes your eyes. The gods are hungry for our demise." Then,
he walked away whispering, "Let the games begin, war is once again in the wind."

I stood there, and felt truly alone for the first time. Who was that man___ anyway?

I lived in a brown paper bag. I tripped and stumbled over my words. I searched for the precise,
defining entity, that would express and state my position in the world. Searched for my
relationship to others, who wrestled with that same vacant feeling, of not belonging. I was
seeking, the self. That within, which I did not yet know. That evolving creature, that is borne out
of hope, that I might still become, more then I was. Foolish as I was, I wanted to be who I
suspect, I was meant to be. Before the hammer slings and controlling others, began their molding
abuses. Before the brain washers, washed away my individuality. How audacious I must have
appeared to others. How arrogant I must have been, to want to be me. I tried to sleep. Drifting in
and out of life’s here and now, as the dream would not dream and I would not wake. . . not
completely

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Padded feet on deserted streets
After-hours as others sleep
With half Moon hidden
Behind clouds and trees stripped of leaves

Familiar walks of solitude and classic etude’s

Whispering in tall Fall grasses
Fences blending shadows into the night.
As Life’s fabric of mystery / weft and weaves

There are gardens of purple hush

With no access for trespasses
No stone pillows for the restless and the lost
That wander the forever in dirty sleeves

The air smells of dogs of war

Avoiding the whore of death
That tempts my contempt / of the pleasures
Society so eagerly receives

Being alone is my preference in life

Not the cackle of woman and bleating sheep
Or those that would lie in wait / to destroy
Dreams and Dawns of precious sleeps ·

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In the ‘Nether World, my third eye blinked. I saw the shape of darkness, tall, filling the doorway
to where I lay. Like as to a man, clothed in black. Yet, black is a color. This was the absence of
color. There was no sound. No alarm. A void in space and time. Perhaps, it was death come to
see if I still lived. Perhaps, it was Father’s angel, sent for reasons unknown to me. Or maybe, it
was just the fever of depression, leaving the shell of me. Not yet! Not yet, ( I cried ) As I was
unprepared for life, I am unprepared for death. There are still questions unanswered, and I will
pass this way but once.

I had this awareness that someone I did not know, was walking behind me in my dream. The
street, had a sense of familiarity, although I’m not sure from where, or when. I saw a small shop’
on the right and entered, not knowing what I was looking for. It was an old and an odd looking,
Bodega or General Store. The few shelves were stocked with items of chips and a few tins of
food that held no interest for me. The man behind the counter and another, were speaking words I
didn’t understand. I assumed that they were Ecuadorian, as the sound of the words, seemed to be
in Spanish, and they had that characteristic look of other Ecuadorians I had met.

I noticed that they were placing some kind of wager, on a lottery betting slip. I waited my turn,
then picked the number 243, that I wanted to play. He began his computations, writing many
combinations, adding zeros to the number I had chosen, making the number 3 zero 2. I didn’t
want any zeros. I wanted the number that I had chosen. Then the list changed. I didn’t understand
what he was trying to tell me. The other person had left and I couldn’t ask him to interpret for me.
Not that I would have understood him either. Looking at the list, it appeared to be a list of
medical services, with the cost added at the end. Assuming once again that I understood, it
seemed as if he were telling me, that he owed a lot of money that he couldn’t afford to pay and
was in fear of going to Debtors Prison. Although I felt a sorry for his situation. I did not know
why he was telling me about his problems. Then it occurred to me, that perhaps, he was hoping, if
I won the lottery, I would pay his bills.

I wandered into an adjoining room of the shop and noticed that it was a large, open square, with
no furnishings, doors or windows. The floors, walls and ceiling were covered in small
multicolored ceramic tiles. It seemed as if, I was always finding my Self, in unfamiliar places, with
people I did not know, trying to find my way back, to where ever I had come from. Always, the
returning path was blocked by walls, mountains or roads, that had no turning. I was on a long
nocturnal journey, in a singular forward direction, unhappy because I was continually lost.
Looking for that familiar place in my genetic memory. That far removed place of ancient lives and
times. In my night wanderings, I was man, as a homing pigeon. Caught in the middle of a
magnetic ION storm and had lost its direction to the place it belonged. I wandered the forever,
looking for that warm sweet breast, and the coo / coo sound, of the eternal Mother.

I woke slowly. Stubbed my big toe and cursed a moment before, I actually felt the pain. The
morning paper, reported, that the Lottery Number for last night, had been 2, zero, 3. The
shopkeeper’s number, had come out, in the box of my dreams.

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Old New Moon
Cold night moon
Winter cold
New Years old cold
Familiar as broken bones
Too tight shoes
Hole in the sole / hole in the Soul
Where the warm fell away
Lost
Pain too large to lose
Carried as a cloak over one shoulder
As I leant on a black painted limping stick
I should have embraced the Tao
Where NO thing is worth the seeking
and the pain of life
___ just is ·

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Knowing why, doesn’t make the search go away. Knowing how, doesn’t mean you can stop.
There are alternative ways, different days and no one gets to stay forever. There are traps. There
are walls. People trip and people fall, and some never get up and walk again. The world continues
to change. Nothing stays the same and tomorrow is not always better. Bad things happen to good
people. Good things happen to bad, and no one knows, why the wind blows, the water rises and
why everything must die. Wishing will not make the pain of life go away. Life, is what it is.

I wasn’t afraid. I had found peace, in the understanding, that I was not happy. Only idiots and
brainwashed robots, were always happy. I was at peace with the acceptance of my life. I’ve been
to the other side. You know, crossed the line. Where the juke joints live and people die. Where the
rhythms have a hitch and some jive, and the words flow as a sudden snow. Kinda unexpected.
Where the rules ain’t as important, as the fire and ice, going through my veins and the sound of
underground trains made me feel gritty in my B-flat’ strains. The city made me crazy. Air I
breathed, kinda hazy and I couldn’t take it anymore. So, I poured all my feelings onto the page.
Bounced off the ceilings with all of my rage, to see if it would fit, into the message I had writ.
I have been, to the other side."

I went to the corner bar, for a drink. Smiled my best smile.

Put a twinkle in my eye, and said ‘Hi.’

"Let me ask you a question, she said softly, ‘Would you be flattered, if a woman twenty years
older than you, tried to pick YOU up?" The illusion burst, as a soap bubble. Suddenly, I was 61
again. My yellow fingers, smelled of burnt tobacco. The hair in my right ear, began to tickle. My
face felt a rush of blood, as I stood wilting, in my too tight, cheap suit. "Excuse me," I said,
almost in a whisper. Walking away older, then when I came in. I stopped drinking Wild Turkey
after that.

Now, years later, as I think back on the days when I was younger. The Church in white-washed
wood, still stands on that Summer Sunday, some sixty years ago. The sky is still greenish blue.
The clouds are still puffy gray, and the bells bong’ soundlessly, as only a dream can sound. I see
my self as a child, standing on the street corner outside. Trying to develop pictures in his mind, as
others in fresh washed shirts and pressed suits go in. Looking out from behind dry eyes, he saw
a better memory to tuck away, for a future day. Like today.

We are all just passing through. If we decide to stay a while, sit a spell. We may be able to rent or
lease some place, as we ride this rock through space. We can’t own it, even if we pay for it. The
tax man will take it back. Come with bricks and bats. We own nothing, that we can take with us,
as we build our towers and bridges. We can’t even take the smell of flowers, they leave at our
grave, or the sweat we gave, to make this place ours. So, jus relax. Don’t get too attached. It
ain’t ours. We just use it for hours, to do what THEY,’ want us to do.

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No matter where I am
I would rather be somewhere else
No matter who I am with
I would rather be with someone else
Or better yet ___ be alone
For me / it is better to reject the world
Than give the world the opportunity
To reject who I have decided / I should be
I am a malcontent
A label that I am content to live with ·

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As I searched for the key, to open the door. The dull ache of lower lumbar. Shortened breath, and
weak knees, stand unsteady against the winds of today. The concert of Winter’s, discordant,
cacophony, has lost its appeal. The music has not changed. Only my self. As an old man, I was
beginning to see life, as others had always seen life. When we were children, I thought, ‘If one,
was to read all the fragments of my mind, at one sitting. A ‘crazy quilt’ would emerge. Too small
to cover the sadness. Too large to carry. So I hang it on the wall, like a trophy or an unsold
painting for the whole world to see.

There are so many of us, beat down over the years. Lying on sidewalks, waiting for our time to
die. Splashing words across a wall, that doesn’t matter. Our destiny defined before birth. We have
no value left upon the earth. Everybody is expendable. I considered my meaningless existence.
Truth is in the now. Everything past, is muddled. Covered with a widows veil. Distorted by pride
and fear. That future thing is never, what we had supposed, hoped or fantasized. Only the now,
this moment, that eternal space between breaths means anything at all. Empathy with my self, is
all that allows me to believe, that I matter and gives me the will to go on.

I began writing about all the boarding houses, and single room occupancies, that I knew still
survived in the Southern cities and the rust belt of the Mid-West. Peeling paint, and stained sinks.
Plugged toilets and showers down the hall. Mental deficient thieves and the morbidly unwashed
mass of lonely old men. All strangers, that filled my wanderings. Having to sleep with one eye
open and my shoes under my pillow. Wire hangers, hanging, all bunched together, in front of
lockless doors and open windows, as a warning device, from second story b&e’s. Always some
scheme, cooking in the corner, to rip off someone weaker then your self.

Alcohol and drug induced violence, venting blood and vengeance at some unexpected time, yet to
be determined. Using ketchup packets from fast food restaurants, adding hot water to make a
soup of sorts. Still collecting cigarette butts off the street, stripping off the paper, mixing all the
tobacco up, and re-rolling it, into fresh looking, home mades.

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No one knows why some choices made are unwise / certainly not I
Or why some are out of step with the universal mind / as is mine
All I know for sure ___ is, I know nuthin’ for sure

There are those that believe with all their heart / I know not why
They see things that are not here or there / that I cannot
All I know for sure ___ is, I know nuthin’ for sure

While others are willing to kill or die / for an idea that I cannot comprehend
or bring about a final end / without trying to mend a broken fence
To me / makes no sense
All I know for sure ___ is, I know nuthin’ for sure

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I had tried to lose my self, many times. Running in darkness. Hiding behind a shed. Finding a busy
intersection and letting the world pass me by. I have lost my self, in book. In film. The bottom of
an empty glass and a whiff of smoke and drift of mind. A sad song on a cemetery night. When I
came back to my self, having fought so hard, to be who I wanted to be. My pockets were empty. I
had lost my ID. I opened the bag, that I had carried a lifetime. There was a lot of dark empty
space. Some memories, smiles and tears, that never found my face. Knowledge without wisdom.
Wasted energies. Experiences never intended. Pain I could not erase. Many failures and
disappointed others, I had met along the way. Many books unread, many games left unplayed. In
my search for what? I’m still not sure. My motives, though well intended, thoughts often impure.
I could have been. Should have been. Meant to be so much more. I barely managed to carry that
dusty bag. Now empty, lying there on the floor.

My life was all grumbling, assigning negativity, to that which my eyes beheld. My spirit, damp
and soggy with the clay of life’s drudgeries. I had come upon a narrowing of the way. The Hall of
Doors closed. Attempting to turn and return, from where I had come. The girth of my
consuming, swollen ankles, weakened by excess, I could not. Stifled by the smalling enclosures,
my gaze went floorward and as my chin touched my chest, my windpipe bent. The scent of my
failures, filled my lungs. As a wounded naked child, in the chill of the long night, I pondered my
decisions in life and could find no fault, with any other ___ than my’ self. I had rejected the
wisdom of experience. Going my own way, in arrogant, delusional defiance. With too much pride
and too late in the game to change. I accepted my fate and I was slowly being erased, from the
‘Book of Life. Like others, appearing, darkly on the street corners of cities. Staring vacantly, as
the rush of life moved around us. I hadn’t wanted it, to end like this. Shuffling, dragging one
foot. Elbow pressed to my waist, holding up my rumpled trousers. Whimpering with each painful
step

Drag stop Step, wince, drag.

Not too long ago I was the man, I thought I was. A Son’s hero. Strength of my loving wife. Now
discarded, unable to carry the burden, as flotsam upon the sea of man.

Drag stop Step, wince, drag.

Thoughts of fire-fights, gallantly dying for ‘Ideals of State.

Enmeshed in battles with comrades. Hero’s all. But not this.
Scorned by the new youth, as I once was.
Ignored by the fluttering lashes, of girls bright black eyes
I pulled my upturned collar closer to my throat
With windblown strands of hair in my eyes.
Praying for that long warm sleep of ‘Forever.

Drag stop Step, wince, drag.

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I knew, I was in trouble. Encased in private dreams, I walked the streets, through Subway steam.
Oblivious to the thoughts of others. Their wants and needs, lusts and greeds. Unwed Mothers
and children crying. Hungry, homeless, cold and dying. From cheap wine, with nowhere to safely
sleep. All that remains is Pride. Of what? Embarrassed shame? A strangers name? Nothing
remains, in who I had hoped to be. So, I wander in whatever direction, the wind blows my back.
Across the tracks and through the brush, of once garden’s pruned. Manicured ‘till bloom, of
fragrant, wafting airs, turned to sickly smell, of graves, now frozen gates to hell. Leaning against
the Granite reality. Scraped my knuckles and barely bleed. Feel the need to rest, exhausted,
crumple and collapse. The stars remain fixed. My world spins in ellipses. Forever turning,
churning through the airless void. "Push the swing higher, I want to touch the clouds." My Belly
flutters. Eyelids squint against the light. Wind whoosh chases night. Summer and being seven
follow me, down the path, to a porch well worn, an unlocked door, and my Mother’s scolding . . .
"Your hands are dirty and you’re late for Supper..."

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No one knows why some choices made are unwise / certainly not I
Or why some are out of step with the universal mind / as is mine
All I know for sure ___ is, I know nuthin’ for sure

There are those that believe with all their heart / I know not why
They see things that are not here or there / that I cannot
All I know for sure ___ is, I know nuthin’ for sure

While others are willing to kill or die / for an idea that I cannot comprehend
or bring about a final end / without trying to mend a broken fence
To me / makes no sense
All I know for sure ___ is, I know nuthin’ for sure

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 Epilogue

Have you ever seen a stand of birch

Braced against the snow ?
A field untouched by buildings
Sleeping under nights blue white glow ?
Or how a country road unpaved
Weaves among the barren brush ?
Can you hear winter’s gentle breath
Beneath a full moons hush ?
Then you know the peace
That comes with an old mans death ·

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 Afterword

Poets sit alone and dare to rip out their Soul

Hanging it on rooftop clothes lines for the whole world to see
Sensors of emotion / witnesses of life’s experience
Not afraid of being vulnerable
Having courage to love / strong enough to walk away
Wanting only to share / so that others may see
There is nothing fragile / in being a poet ·

Donn Goodside

20 Dust Dancer Donn

Goodside