Trailer Lust...

I remember once a mother ship,
anchored for too long immovable,
submerged axle deep into southeastern Ohio mud,
rubber rotted away;
an armored behemoth built for the frugally thrift set
whose need for built-in amenities
formed with cheap paneling upon shag rug carpet
fulfilled a visual chic projected in glossy fliers
with printed names like Holly Park and Price-Meyers

when oil made millions before the preferred billions,
this transportable abode was assembled porous,
minimally insulted from bitter cold and stifling heat
in a land where it was never intended to be
and this one in particular,
isolated on a hillside,
raked and shook by March gales,
achingly frozen stiff by January sub-tolerable cold,
and baked August crisp;
inhabitants poached by heat steamed humidity
that was me for 3 years.

I remember loud southern-fried amplifications
vibrating aluminum and glass
while imbibements of the leafy green were inhaled
and chased with a cold fermentation or more;
I remember an upheaval existence of political implosions,
social suicides,
and economic depressions on such a grand scale
where re-entry into the consciously correct norm was not only near impossible,
but really not preferred;
I remember genderless flannel shirts tucked into belt-less Levis,
work boots laced up above the ankle,
hair dangling below the collar,
Dylan on the turntable,
brownies in the oven,
and communal dharma bums lounging about the abbreviated living room,
ragging on "the man" while eating off of yard sale plates
and planning the future.

I wonder what happened to that counter-cultural spasm
that molded into a movement of enlightenment;
one where money was handy but not lusted after,
where intellectual hick in its most cerebral infested form
mixed with primitive application;
how I sometimes miss that single-wide existence
and then I know I could never go back there... at least not yet,
for the circle is not yet complete,
the laws of cyclical redundancy not yet fulfilled.