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Show Blue Run/83 grill your own steak place, before she got looped on her Lupus meds and had to wear those dark glasses Today is a Monday-moondav. The earth is hauling ass through the Large Magellanic Cloud, four days or so from Summer Solstice when the sun sets straight down the end of our Utah street and we burn wishes on the patio, grill a chicken on fresh sage over charcoal and drink the sweet Jesus out of double vodka tonic. Renee's missed the Watson Chapel loop, so here we are going straight through town on Dollarway Road. The mill stinks through the air-conditioner vents. I grew up smelling it out of the clear blue when the wind blew out of the southeast, usually around the holidays, when everybody accused everybody else of bean gas. Here's a wide bend in the Arkansas we'll follow the rest of the way home, water come from high in Colorado where you can piss one side to the other A blues show is coming over some spot way left on the dial, a Little Rock Station-Cab Fare Blues it's called, the DJ a sexy-voiced smoker who plays John Lee Hooker and Howlin' Wolf and Lightnin' Hopkins-men singers Mama loved Who'd made the Arkansas Hall of Music Fame downtown in the Old State House where Bill Clinton announced his candidacy out on that wide veranda, straight away from the Excelsior Hotel with its glass elevator where all that blow job business maybe or maybe didn't go on with that Beebe girl. Across the street sit the grand old Capitol Hotel where anybody with any sense goes to do whatever illicit thing they want. Lara's asking if we're there, she's hungry, she hates this truck ride. Why am I so mean to her? She starts in with the word Renee and I sling at each other in arguments. From the carseat, my own daughter's screaming Peckerhead' Peckerhead! Peckerhead! into my left ear. She gains moral support when Renee smiles in the rearview. |