A full moon would have welcomed this night but instead a wee slice hung like a hook in the marcasite sky. The rough road made the car pitch and veer until I slowed to a snails pace. I was never going to the get to the poetry reading on time, who found this great short cut on that stupid map? Of course, I had, someone who actually owned a paper map of the national forest roads in the county. Mostly logging roads, pitted with deep potholes from skidders and semis. My little Hyundai was doing pretty good so I should have given her more credit that the grief as I beat on the dash when she finally plopped into one of the holes and decided she’d gone far enough. The tires spun in the mud, I tried to rock’er back and forth to no avail. No poetry reading for me I thought. It was still early, barely 6 but dusk was here and of course as I picked up my cellphone from the passenger side floorboard, I saw the “no service” right away. Now what, it was at least three miles back to the better road
David Carradine met George Carlin in prison, I would’ve said heaven but I don’t think they made it. I would’ve said in hell but I hope they are not there so maybe they’re in prison — purgatory shall we say somewhere between for a day or two or three? like the cat with nine lives spinning out of control praying for forgiveness for sins we do not know Is value more than what they made in fame and fortune here, my idealism of both, I still hold so dear. The 1970s youth I was seeking peace as a boomer I found not only in these two, but in Paul Harvey’s humor.
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