Bees, a pickup, cold bottles of
beer, pocket knives, all to appease those in a system which is essentially a song, a
coveted cauldron, a bit of old-story-fluff skidding through the days and nights, always involving whoever it can. People most of all, and almost all of the time. Plural of which is generation,
insisting as it were, on the very altar itself, for some control to balance the
unending progression of this, this, this, over and over until an altar may as
well be the front sofa. Grass is a little taller here, a little golden, and
the light strikes upon your eyes just right to blind about 30% of the populace.
5% of the populace are writers (of which a small percentage is also blind) and
are happy to describe events to those who have long ceased caring. So next time
you’re there, maybe for that weekend-rated vacation, maybe to look at old-timey
shit, and a woman cocks her head, points it your direction, just walk away and
stop breathing; grab a coffee with the non-dairy creamer at the R&L minimarket,
and walk the fuck out. You may not hear it, but parts of your ears do, and it
is nothing that can be resisted long—it is a dirge thrummmming, demanding,
just a piece, just you, just your hands and knees.
