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It was that last great season before the end – it was fire brimstone and blues. Malynda left her head in the basement and Jackson was left in the garden proper surrounded by weeds and a deep penetrating feeling of doom. When he thought of things he had murderous premonitions but looking in the mirror he was surrounded by weakness casting his eyes down at his shoes. Malynda felt beautiful in her sun-suits pacing back and forth the concrete floors of the basement. She sang her own songs cast to music in her head. Night would come and night would go – nothing ever happened and it never got any better or any worse. They grew old and they died and they only saw each other once in all the time spent so close.
Jackson born of Midwest dust grew from Kansas vines and left like a graveyard when he sun was going down. He picked apples and sheared sheep, ate beans from a can and tried to be the new hobo folk hero but never made any friends. He had a hair lip and a short temper. He smoked cigarettes backwards and always tried to quit. He settled down in Memphis where he did men favors and sucked on lima beans soaked in gasoline. He had a garden on his head that he never trimmed and soon the sun scorched the grass away. He was lonely and stuck in the back gutter of some dream he never shared. He had no opinions about anything except himself and those were ill formed diatribes about poker hands. He could treat no woman like a queen for he was never a king.
Malynda was raised as a queen in south Savannah where the ghosts of slaves haunt the old trees and play things. She grew under a great sun hat made of wicker white and pale as her skin. She learned to paint her fingernails black and drink gin from the bottle. She never ate pie. She was scared of the ringing of phones and walked in the middle of the street even when there was a sidewalk. She was always chewing gum. She left when her parents were arrested for sodomy and caught a train to New York City. She prayed for scales and fins and eyes to see the depth of the Hudson. She thought up-state was the part of the park she had never seen. She was a belle with no knocker never aware of the war.
The war had raged for years in sand pits they had never heard of. The powerful told the papers it wasn’t important, the papers told the people the same, the people told each other it was for the best, the best was redefined, meanings of things were switched back and forth in confusion until everyone thought nothing was going on. And at that point whatever it was was nothing and nothing had no mind to pay.
Malynda threw-up on Jackson at a bust stop in Iowa City. She ate some bad mushrooms trying to flee the dust of New York City.
“I grew up in dust.” Said Jackson lighting a backward smoke
“I grew up with ghosts” Said Malynda with wide eyes.
They knew somewhere that they would miss each other. They rode the bus to Denver and found a home in a salvage lot by a low rolling river. She went down to the basement to think things over and never came out. He wanted to start a garden but couldn’t find any seeds.
Jackson born of Midwest dust grew from Kansas vines and left like a graveyard when he sun was going down. He picked apples and sheared sheep, ate beans from a can and tried to be the new hobo folk hero but never made any friends. He had a hair lip and a short temper. He smoked cigarettes backwards and always tried to quit. He settled down in Memphis where he did men favors and sucked on lima beans soaked in gasoline. He had a garden on his head that he never trimmed and soon the sun scorched the grass away. He was lonely and stuck in the back gutter of some dream he never shared. He had no opinions about anything except himself and those were ill formed diatribes about poker hands. He could treat no woman like a queen for he was never a king.
Malynda was raised as a queen in south Savannah where the ghosts of slaves haunt the old trees and play things. She grew under a great sun hat made of wicker white and pale as her skin. She learned to paint her fingernails black and drink gin from the bottle. She never ate pie. She was scared of the ringing of phones and walked in the middle of the street even when there was a sidewalk. She was always chewing gum. She left when her parents were arrested for sodomy and caught a train to New York City. She prayed for scales and fins and eyes to see the depth of the Hudson. She thought up-state was the part of the park she had never seen. She was a belle with no knocker never aware of the war.
The war had raged for years in sand pits they had never heard of. The powerful told the papers it wasn’t important, the papers told the people the same, the people told each other it was for the best, the best was redefined, meanings of things were switched back and forth in confusion until everyone thought nothing was going on. And at that point whatever it was was nothing and nothing had no mind to pay.
Malynda threw-up on Jackson at a bust stop in Iowa City. She ate some bad mushrooms trying to flee the dust of New York City.
“I grew up in dust.” Said Jackson lighting a backward smoke
“I grew up with ghosts” Said Malynda with wide eyes.
They knew somewhere that they would miss each other. They rode the bus to Denver and found a home in a salvage lot by a low rolling river. She went down to the basement to think things over and never came out. He wanted to start a garden but couldn’t find any seeds.
posted by Darkmanjack at 2:18 PM
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