I’ve got twenty dollars so I bought some sunglasses from a pharmacy and I’m driving out to leave a few honeycrisps on Johnny Appleseed’s grave and to eat French fries out of a newspaper parcel somewhere flat and dry in Indiana.
Every now and then something sparkling and mawkish surges through my veins and presses it’s cheek against the inside of my stomach and hums something good. Mother’s milk, river rocks, Queen Anne’s lace, salt and spray, apple pie. It’s stupid. And reality inevitably intervenes, trust me, I know this- it licks the flame with a slit tongue. But until then, I want to roll pine needles between my fingertips, I want thick sap and berry juice to roll down my wrists, shamelessly, I want to scrape my knees raw and drink an entire bottle of modest wine on top of a mossy rock, I want a heaving chest and clenching fists.
Blue Magoos comes on and the temperature rises. Winter whips the horse and follows.