Prom Song 89

This place up north snowbound, with hunters on snowshoes and violins over a drum machine, everyone drinking beer and tea and wearing hand knitted wool sweaters with gigantic floppy collars that could cover their faces and Vaseline on their cheeks as outside the streetlight casts dark green, blue green and then purple over the softly perfect snowdrifts, the footsteps and wheel tracks from a few hours ago caressed smooth by the wind hums alongside the CV and cell phone signals and satellite radio waves, keeping long distance drivers out on the high way company with steady streams of similarly themed songs...endless mix tapes riffing on a nearly specific time and place, otherwise known as a "sub genre".

im thinking of overweight baby mamas wasting away on payment plan couches deep in the desserts of daytime television, as dishes pile high in the sink, the drain ringed with food resin and im zeroing in on the trash overflowing with a white cardboad box sitting proudly on top--it's corners still tight and bright label mostly intact...pink and white icing smeared on the see-thru cellophane window, which was once the peephole onto a promise of paradise.


JVM said...

metaphor is the key that unlocks everything

Anonymous said...

yeah that's a pretty good two sentences.

made me think of a trucker i know and his wife she works at the grocery store, said she gets him back for a week soon.

Bobby said...

I miss the interactions with you, limited as they were. You're obviously brilliant. No shit. I hope I didn't fuck you up in any way - matter of fact - I'd rather do right by you. I know this is all random. And stupid. And stuff. But I've been thinkin of people who have had input in my life. Of whatever sort. And you're the one. For real. For real for real. You're the real deal no matter what form you appear in. I guess I just got caught up in things and got stupid. I hate the thought that you'd hate me or somethin like that. But. Whatever. I'm just another random internet asshole. But know this: Keep on doing what you're doing. Because you're like...Pulitzer or Pushcart or any of that stuff...for real. You are the real deal. The genuine item. Respect. For real. You got it. Keep working it. You'll get there. --Bobby, random asshole from the past from some random medium