"Roll Me Away"

**For the Rep Your State" competition--which is certain to lose, but damned if it didn't feel good writing it. I miss it.**

Rolling slow down the old
Seger back-list,
blown along by a winsome
wind and the same ole
travelers addiction
to a place and time
that can never be changed

Most of what anyone
knows or remembers
about where I was born
are the unmangling
of highways
leading them away,
or around,
from Detroit City;
and the big puddles,
such as Huron, Superior
and of course, the greatest
Lake Michigan herself

One might come to suspect
that nobody had ever
been traveling down
any back-road in this
country, just to discover
some place that they
had never been, to
see what you had never
seen--such a river
that might seem nameless,
as ol' Rand McNally
never even mentioned
a trickle about what he
must have figured a traveler
needed to know, merely
to get on through

My sense of duty had
actually taken me upon
several tours.
I am not talking about
those that I had to
tout my M4 along,
but from Georgia to Texas,
to Colorado, and then
back around to where
my military career first began.

That whole loyalty bit
did preserve something
of a soft spot for Benning.
Legends will suggest
that there is no harder
ticket to the front line.
My favorite cadence to sing
is still "Follow Me,"
and I smile when I hear
someone say  
God Loves the Infantry.

I live in Alabama now,
near a small town
that still reminds me
of that place
that me head
nods to call home.
A long, strong and proud
sense of the back-road
living, where you can
only roll your eyes
when Hollywood decides
it might know something
about it...

Such as we are all
near half convinced
that California is
suffering from a serious
case of inbred cannibal
infestations, and a near
auto-phobic response
to a drawl.

It is all perfectly fine
to believe that is all
just a southern thing,
while sipping on
some sweet wines suggested
by some another someone else
convinced on what they know.
Even us older breed
will catch a smirk,
something like a common cold,
when we hear Kid Rock.
Especially when we hear
him say...

"I'm a Michigan boy
can you feel that!"
So we're cocky,
get over it.

Such as I, though
I might keep much
ado about myself
under my hat--
the recruiter thought
I may have lost
my mind when I walked
into his office at 40.
"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Is our country
still fighting
in two wars?"
I asked him
right back.

"Yeah," he said
and smiled, as I
believe it may
have struck him
with a sense of
a familiar attitude.

While I've never been
much of a love the one
you're with sort;
all of what it really
is nothing more than
a bunch of imaginary lines
that will blur, as long
as you really don't pay
too much attention
to the way we talk.

My dad always used to say
that hot dogs were made
of lips and assholes.
While everyone may not
be aware of the connection
to what has been called
our favorite past time
a time or two-- the
only true difference
you can tell between
a Tigers
and a Cardinals fan
is the color
of the hat that they wear...

Strolling me back into
the once upon a time
when Motown reached out
and touched the world,
and Mr. Henry Ford
gave us all a little more go;
and Ted Nugent is still
rushing through the tall brush
of his young boy in Michigan thing.

He'll tell you that it is
the call of the wild
(which is actually
a tourist trap in the
northern city of Gaylord--
which is all fine, if
you are really into taxidermy).
I am fair to sure that
Ted has his own setup,
and doesn't need to take
the long ride north
along I-75

Which is one of those roads
that we're more than half convinced
we share with other,
because... well...

We're cocky,
so get over it.

To hear one of us talk,
you might only be listening
to what we do not like,
but it is likely more
about what we do care about.
My dad always used to say
that hot dogs were made
of lips and assholes.
Heh-he! You'd probably not
find a back yard in Michigan
that hasn't grilled up a few,
along with a full store and stock
of Reverend Bluejeans gonna
shake us down along some
blue collar revival--
from the shores of Lake St. Clair
to the Grand Traverse Bay;
from the Wolverines and Spartans
to the Red Wings and... well...
there are some things that
we do not mention, save to ourselves.
We still love the Lions, but uh...
Yeah, about-that,
we'll just keep moving right along.

We're still cocky,
so we might still believe
in any given season,
even Halley's Comet
will come roaring back
with a more proper Michigan
sort of attitude, which
may not be entirely proper
anywhere else in the world--
but can you feel it?

Sometimes, I may still dream about
kicking a roll through an autumn wood
for a little reconnection
to that northern Black River bend,
where the trout often meet
the black bear, and the crow
grow as big as the hawks.
Perhaps, to mix it up some,
I'll put on some Marvin Gaye
or Smokey Robinson; or even yet,
to listen to Aretha Franklin
belt it out;
only to settle myself
back into what I need to know
for a time, from a time
when I really
knew about nothing else
than what has always
been around me...

I've never hated anywhere
that I have ever been,
as I could usually feed
my addiction for the back-roads,
and a beauty that reminds
you that the only truly
original artiste is nature herself.
You really don't have much room
in yourself to start wondering
too much ado about your neighbor's
back yard (unless, of course, they
are grilling up some hot dogs--Heh-he!);
because what of all that
grown up around you,
is still the biggest part
of who and what you are

And to the end,
I will merely
let Seger "Roll me away,"
e'er wanderin' toward a Heaven
that just has to look
something like Michigan wild.

(With no blackouts on
Red Wing games)

Uley