Posted on 13 February 2010

Kitchen smells of vacuum dust and mother’s full of silent virtue: she saw
boys with Anglo-Saxon names like Chad and Luke hold hands, going no place
but some death valley where they read fiction by saintly whores not yet 16,
both sick on subtle syntax and wayfaring blues, Dylan knew. Bottle prophets
ridicule but boys that love drink strong. Still curious, he’ll lean across
your arm and ask, you’ll know—the music swells, Blue Bayou on the radio,
kids in cars smoke thin reeds as mothers paint their nails.

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