I love medium sized Kansas towns. Towns like this one seem highly conducive to drinking coffee and beer in alternate succession for many, many years. My country and this universe could be carried lightly over my shoulder. What I know loosely of the entirety of existence could pack down to the size of a head of lettuce. I could juggle it, toss it away, or put it in a bag for later.
There is a calm precision to Larned Kansas, but I think I could fit right up under the bricks. This is the season for me to stand still. The geometric corners of each architectural detail point into a flat immaculate sky. From the perspective of my foggy glasses perched over a coffee cup, it looks nearly fake. I see two postcard images tossed hastily in a stack. Kansas is busy at work with this. I am not accustomed.
I could find myself jealous of the innocence. I could set up a tent on the steps of city hall, and concerned citizens would know to cook for one more.
Kansas has become more beautiful as I've found myself further to the west. I'm riding through the prairies where grass and wheat make important declarations. I will go either with the wind or against, and my heart begs the thin grasses to point toward the west.
Larned whispers a subtle but steady promise of cheap coffee and beer. Larned Kansas has peaked my interests. I am looking at a three story building. A skyscraper with one lazy finger pointing at a lonely suspended manatee in the sky. Coors on tap, indeed. In my alternate reality, I don a burlap cloak and manage to walk the line between reality and being forced to move on.
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