Listen, back when you were a drinking man: You heard the cicadas churn their wind-up poetry, elegies from craunching throats. The parking lot was a checkerboard of F-150’s and Wranglers, intersected by broken yellow lines, and the overhead lights shredded their windshields. There was a cornfield beyond the blacktop, and it sighed like corduroy, and it had a womanly fragrance. The wind, a tattooed thug, pulled you to the fence line and forced you stare at the mathematical spaces between you and everything else.
You warbled and fidgeted, and sprayed an arch of piss along the posts. You cried for the dark to swallow you; instead, the Neil Diamond karaoke grew louder. Holly Holy became your prayer, and then vanished. Then, Don’t go breaking my…, but it was too late. A fumble of pocket keys, and then no, you would walk. To rest in the corn, into her trembling, caramel arms. The cicadas would tell you what you needed to know.
Beautiful imagery that transports me to another place, Steven, as always.
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Thank you, Diana. 🙂
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Lovely, Steven. —- Suzanne
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Thank you, Suzanne. 🙂
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You really write about the mysteries, Steven – your words seem to come from another place, then take us back there.
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Thank you, Helen… I really appreciate that. 🙂
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You’re very welcome, Steven… and it’s true! 🙂
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🙂
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wow
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Thanks!
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You may just be brilliant when you are letting it rip, Stephen. I have missed reading your blog! It is fun catching up a little.
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Aw, thank you, Jane… I appreciate that so much. Will you be coming back to your blog any time soon? 🙂
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I am going to try to write in the next few days. I took a few days off work because family is visiting, and I would love to relax a bit with my laptop when we are all out in the country visiting my Mom. We shall see…
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Well, I’ll watch for you. (No pressure.) 🙂
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Reblogged this on Ordinary Handsome and commented:
From way back in 2016, a whole different time, a whole different place. Just yesterday and a few days, right?
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