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Folsom Prison Blues, Caught Like Sapphires Out of Season Folsom Prison Blues, Caught Like Sapphires Out of Season
by Linda Lane
2007-06-04 10:30:30
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The educated batman with his creamy hedgerow and certain inconsistent flocks of apple Jews circumvented the elephants bathroom corridor from time to time with a ceaseless tableau of statuary gold, like angel-hair heartaches and bellbottomed weather, one leg dangling over one spool of blue thread threatening to roar and piss off Scott; Scott as usual, Scott at last was imagining the long hallways of doppelgangers and priests dealing from open car doors, cars built in the 70's, cars with muffins and catacombs and tunnels of buttons, epigraphs and black helicopter landscapes ever vigilant above the robust walls of Folsom prison.

"How long has she been in?", and "when will she get out?" they asked her mysterious brother, the guardian page, the savior of the hymn, "a rat a tat tat" he replied diffidently rounding the corner wall, fury and frustration going first and brain last, "or was it the other way about?" asked Alice, whether she knew or didn't, riding under a stamp, foot on a moth, taking off for parts unknown, unwept, over what could have been under different circumstances, but which was not, encased on the coin of Victory buried for centuries in the forgiving soil which eventually coughed up that mirth like a stomach bubble, the only one left behind the sun, stalled and forgotten in a book without proof, encased like faith behind glass, all burst with ashes and rot, but well done son of good lineage or daughter of good lineage, you survived.

Bizarre bad songs the like of which opened Ibuprofen books and encased lamp rust on Rumplestiltskin's hotel room, no, more like a radio shack, or bedroom in a trailer park shortly before sundown after the rain, when it all burned down before the murder and the war, and then, then it was over, a pool of blood, and left nothing but the writing on this page and the memory of two writers, former lovers, on their remote West coast balconies observing the sun go down via cell phones, and the moon glow alone, apart, a hairs breath from falling in love again or at least off where Shakespeare whispered or jacked off with a hammer and a nylon and a fetish for foot solders and bawdy Russian women he could have married but didn't.

Stripes on his pants and the balloon, and on zebras and words they invented in the men's, these were the memorable things he took with him after the gentle embrace of old age and death; he remembered the flagon of Saint George and the wagons with the stinking corpses and dreamed of deep pink seas with lightening storms in skies to match and lived again in England, fetid England; but at least they starved to death decently there and dared not eat their children like the sickly yellow Chinese with their flesh sticking to them like the dinner of Debbie, and Sam and Mt. Kilimanjaro, or Fuji on the napkin waiting for that single intolerable instant when batman spelled doom with a camera focused from the street up a stick looking for girls panties and glancing better taken shots and he printed them and sniffed them the same as if real, but concave scents of sweet chemicals and compounded gravel pits were really what he cut loose and never sold, they never knew but I did, I swear I saw the sandwishes, the dark play of business.

" Rubbish!" she cried, and really did, sobbing sarcastically, "you will miss me" but robins sing in the dark spring mornings dreaming of the fabulous nests they will make, never recalling or recoiling from the gentle retarded boy talking and walking in circles, his fathers only hope and light, like the jaded blue bird or one squashed since birth, trying to recover "I have dishpan hands, odd bathtubs spray, I am afraid and take not chances with Mom here, even though you are not she, you could be, and I would forget this is play and you could hurt me again and again because you see I was the first born and if I splash just a little in fun or like the boy I am I will know it is wrong and will never sing my song just like that dead blue bird, beak up but dead all the same without even no bath don't store it in the Tupperware it will stink later like Shakespeare's memory lifetime after lifetime born gorgeous and hectic to publish, who needs that your grace? I will accept your magnificent beneficence and towards all my good neighbors ah, see the light that graces the shadowed eye? her eye? her smile, and the rubber thing he keeps padded for good measure; a treasure trove of pleasure and wolf not breeding for life but with strange hound dog cut loose on the vultures of death to conquer at least for himself, ever cut loose the mustered and jasmine and jade spectre of longing and knowing the Buddha -- within -- without -- a memory -- again a dream, and someone else's fine novel I wrote just last week or was it yesterday sine qui non?"

Which brings us back to Scott, not knowing his place, just knowing the justified French in italics, the darting tongue of logic not, the brief brutish kiss of moo-moo liqueur sold in marshmallow huts, ah love, ah me, the pine in the garden the willows of memory and TV, the window pane of blue cigarette smoke at dusk in Asia and kites flying high on miniature dance hall curtains and drunken tips, yes damn it I mean him, you can feel it, you knew him, with his custard pie songs and spittle and journeyman laser hip-huggers and buggery for breakfast and artificial honey wrapped purple pussy colored longing for something he simply would never get and would never regret or miss and that's exactly, precisely what I mean by this; if you don't really fall long in love you never know there are different levels like the big barns that lead us flesh eating monstrosities to Enlightenment or other noble engaged goals beside the shores of gold digging Negroes, which is now historical language I hear, but just as insulting as any specific about color white boy with translucent skin showing your blue veins and what is that argument that men should know but women shouldn't, it still lingers like a bad flu over New Jersey and East Senegal, all home! all brave! none afraid but of longing for you@somewherelse.com.


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