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A Poem: Mountain Home 

Born on the banks of the Cats Cradle
at the base of the Shorttail Mountains
in the valley of the Everyflowing River
in the land of the Great Spirit Revival,
my throat is a vocal dobro and
my voice is a local yodel.
I don’t drive a truck or a horse
but I walk and pedal a bit o’ metal.
Here is home and country and dirt.
Growing payphones, big trees work.
Here’s a lawn gnome cigarette turtle
heart and lungs and fillabust eyeballs.
I’m gone to the city to try to get home
again and again I return to the faux well
and the stone wall
on the neighbor’s lawn (for display)—
I’m going the long way down the highway.

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Speaking of Country

  • A poem by Tom O’Dowd.


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