Fistful of fear slacks my joints with a tendency to brazen the blood. So many corners in this sweet town of four thousand ruffles call out the riff of fractured boredom. One God-given single lane of circle-rouge girls hop up on strangers and a shift to the benign. A vacant infestation of weed and unconventional fingers encompass a gnarl of simple lust.
Yeah, I get in the van parading never-to-return Jane Does of the past. The guy travels reckless stories; gleams the map, top to bottom, as though no one regrets the memory of him. But here he is in my town that anchors ankles like boots on cars. A street meets a face meets a history meets a drug meets a stranger meets the marrow of littered gossip.
A pair of breasts swing beyond the crawling crack pipe. All thumbs aroused and urgent. Six girls giggle and whoop, wait to be plucked by a definitive. I graze the van into the curb, roll down the window and smile. Dimples have mined sparks of Hollywood through jail end horizons. I ask, “You ready to be ripped open by the stars, baby?”
Yeah. I get in the van, smirk at the posse left standing. They are forced to go back to sitcoms, casseroles, and the blank hysteria of Moms. The guy skirts us into the one-lane road of anonymity and hands me a beer. I roll down the passenger window and wave. The sweet landscape slowly starts witching us into deeper green. Soon we nestle in the reserve of jawline forests. The wind is might with wild and threat.