Byline: Trust the Rust

Buford Youthward

Trust the rust it always sleeps and never lies.

Stand in awe, in wonder, listening under scents of incense, senses not worth a cent.

Identification is easy when you mark people by who one knows rather than who one is.

Trouble in a tight sweater whistles by. Beauty is in the ear of this beholder.

She's werewolf blue through and through, carrying a hip flask ensuring she's as hip as can be.

Telling the truth, appreciating your authenticity we all wish we weren't so broke and poor in the city.

Is there a difference between creative interpretation and personal expression?

It all feels the same especially to those quick to quote Kafka and too cool to emotionalize matters of the heart, matters of the soul are something else.

What makes music or art so powerful is the creation of expectations. The greatness is often measured to the degree the expectations are violated.

Meaning isn't coincidence. We do because we think because we do. Don't act like you don't know.

Act one is never done. Grief turns to joy turns to grief. I'm no tragedy in three parts. Left to my own devices, I'm set off to ignite.

I learnt long ago not to shake cans of rust-oleum at night in the train yard or on the rooftop. Shake them in the shadows in the day, get the tints angry early in the evening not under the moon.

You know like I do, everything we come to fear we created for ourselves. The ball bearing beating on the cans rattle ghosts better left asleep. Tread with honor but best not wake the rust.

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