(axe simile)

My brain is the plain breeze sipping of the sand of the place that once cried of freedom and the destiny that dusted a thousand good men and gave rise to a hundred worse.

This is the last dispatch from dixie.

Pork-round and peppered with talk of death and shiner-bocks. dogs yipping at my every want for canine companionship. a father now and again. step, etc. outside my door chit-chatting about things i dare not mention because my ears are shot, my eyes are fried and i suffer no powers of deduction at the moment.

All i want is to be at the show. in my home. where i can find soft skin within shouting distance.

Because though i have enjoyed these lone star moments (as awkward as they might have been. as wrought with inappropriate and ill-timed [perhaps not. perhaps it's just the late cynic in me who refuses to believe there will be a point in time where my life is so fixed on someone so far flung away i can't remember his face in photographs even as he sits right next to me] confessions in the car heading anywhere back from here) but this is not my home. even if my heart might rise under clear expansive skies, i am immured in the rats and concrete of my race.

My callow dream of a city.