"The brain is a stronghold "
the brain is a stronghold caging acute points of drawn-out rolls of film. memoirs are whirling records, unceasing in speed, I hunger to pass over. it's like I'm trapped in an ingrained filmstrip, on playback like automated doors, revolving on a pulsating cadence without stalling.
turbulent bumps are pervasive, hectic remembrances, that aren't gentle to call up. buried fragments can become grinding, don't let them burn out. people overdue in pressing on, are often held-up in denial.
back down from swallowing organic seeds of the untilled center. some souvenirs are inbred and not ordained for the junk bin. in the scattered rubble are leftovers we're shackled to. surrender to the blueprint of upgrading, don't spit on it.
revisiting the weak spot, the sole ride in my father's renovated sixty-five or sixty-nine green mustang convertible. we drove around in the coarse autumn, with windows down and sunroof unfastened.
the glacial air chilled us in the crossover of mother earth's cycles. coming home from grandma's house, we went to the corner store to pick up drinks and State Line potato chips.
I savor the friendship we shared that afternoon, holding firm to its imprint.
Ash Slade lives in Wolcott, CT, and has written poetry for seventeen years. Previous publications include pieces in the Trouvaille Review, San Antonio Review, and most recently, The Lincoln Underground. Hobbies include: reading poetry, classic films, folk music, and collecting journals.