Pioneertown

An exercise in writing freestyle using Yeats as a blueprint.

I recently drove out to the middle of the California desert. One of those fluke trips where you thought the weekend would consist of laundry and errands and a single phone call turns the day into a drive through an area with bad cell service and a great venue.

It’s good to be reminded that you aren’t the only one that does something. I listen to a lot of R&B and Rock from sixty years ago. I got it from previous generations and I start to believe that I’m the only one with that knowledge. I spent time with others that also carry that catalog in their minds and their lives are also soundtracked similar to mine.

It’s the same for reading and writing. We’re all influenced by those that came before us. This is a short exercise. I’m using the below poem by Yeats to freestyle something for practice.

A turn signal wouldn’t help on a road like this.

Windy and gnarled as if pavement weren’t meant for it.

A song was being chased across the desert with bliss.

Headlights weren’t needed to find the saloon after veering left from the twist.

Are we a collection of words

Or does the song exist even if we never hear it?

A dead vape on a bench in the desert doesn’t know the difference.

The lights on the patio imitate fire, mostly from where we sit

Food is a language that goes beyond songs and stories

A burger consumed in the cold remains a burger regardless of the story

A burger eaten, miles traveled, stories sung aloud

Nothing was accomplished or learned from scuttering about, but still, in the end… glory.