Saturday, July 2, 2011

Talking About Our Fathers

Was it pearl or was it albumen? A sure talk that bled into profiles. We made hay while it rained, then drank coffee in the barn talking about our fathers. It was fate, it was a hut, it was aces in the dark.

It was the Maine Coast in 1932. Gorgeous angels leaning on rakes, their faces tilted to the sky. My generation left tires on the trail but yours left shit and bullet casings. All culls will be addressed at noon.

The landscape assured death, it was that kind of place. A cotton mouse, a wily blouse. Fried eggs in place of fingers, ginger tea by the lake at dawn. Love in place of anger, that old dream.

Hell is a total mess. We drove to the capitol city searching for pizza, stoked on coffee. No doubt equals whose kingdom? A trailer park in which a young Hemingway dutifully plugs away at himself.

Bathtub suicide. Weather mercy. Bored horses watched at a distance. Yours they still tell stories about.

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