Where should we go today?
Sewel Makes Room for Them dies at 25 due to cardiac arrest.
He sat at his kitchen table, a folding card table covered in a plastic floral sheet and a small watering can filled with silk geraniums. His jeans, torn white at the tips, cradled his black tie-up boots. An eagle feather hung from his wide brimmed hat, and his long black hair, black like a raven’s belly, laid across his shoulders. In 1973, he fought the trickster hiding in a bottle deeper than any warrior could swim out. Down at the bottom, he road out to the creator looking for answers.
Sewel Makes Room for Them whispers his discovered secrets on the winds that wash South Dakota, and he makes room for them.
I write in my car because…
the scenery is always moving and for some reason that makes it easier to daydream.
the bumps in the asphalt give my words rhythm.
stoplights and traffic are boring.
I can’t always wait until I get to a notebook and desktop.
I’m afraid I’ll lose the words somewhere deep in my head.
sometimes thoughts hit me so hard I need to capture them.
it breaks up the drive.
I’m a safe driver, and I can handle writing and driving simultaneously.
songs on the radio can spark and emotion I don’t want to go away.
I wonder how my thoughts change throughout the year.
I’m in the rain, but I’m dry.
I don’t have time to write anywhere else.
It’s my secret office.
I don’t know what will come next.
When I was younger, I saw my brother, I used to wonder
Would I grow right, in his eyes, would I falter?
So fast, it goes, before I know it.
I’m old, he’s gone, I’ve blown it.
I can only hope he’s smiling on the inside.
Through the stone, he’s yielding, stirring ice
In a tumbler of bourbon, heat on the horizon.
His worry lines and serious eyes are illusions.
Back to the driveway, a blood-stained pavement.
Running for mother to show her what happened.
I never told her it was my fault, my plans.
Let it go child, its over, it happened.
My poor brother, took that one on the inside.
His gut is torn up. I see it in his eyes.
Deep down, buried in the dirt, dwells a tangled mess.
Well, not so much now.
consciousness equals existence so long as you control the thought process
freedom eludes those who follow the currents of their Big Brother
denial leads one headfirst into oncoming traffic
to abandon your lover in the cross hairs of your greatest fears
and finally realize, 2 + 2 = 5
or 3, or cotton ball
or whatever I tell you it =