theres that long snaking two-lane highway you remember, girls lucky enough to have dad doing the roadtrip. doesnt matter what direction cause your bodys loungin on black leather – real – and the eyes see alot and alot still fresh in your eyes memory years later, like the pack of Reds maybe rolled into dads T-shirt sleeve, blanco. tabula rasa. caucasian white unseen, tanned out by the blistering sun, elbow on the chrome wear the window meets the air, slant of the houses and the natives in their adirondack chairs, on the lean. All of the motion, the needle behind the glass circle vibrating, the flash of the sun in the rearview mirror, the wobbly hazy summer heat waves up ahead as far as you can see, the eyelashes, your eyelashes, as they strike quickly out to catch the dust before it hits your delicate eyes.
where were we? then? children of the eighties. daughters of the fathers who served in the Korean War, maybe? sons of the mothers who sucked on diet cokes when nutrasweet was the way, diet measured by calorie count, countdown to one and away. Suntan lotion for jersey shore boardwalkers and latenight spin on teacups of the passing through amusement park setup in its mechanical shadow lurking, the latchkey kids and golf course flashers, unable to live up to the mythology around them all, the bullies who got dropped off the map of academia long before they lashed out, the animal nature of ex-wide receiver number jersey wearing, gap toothed smiling with the koolaid still staining the corners of their mouths or the blood from another beating by deadbeat dad watching for daisy dukes from under the hood of the sixty-one chevy impala, or what he called home, chewing tobacco and spitting freely at the mangy mutt who knew the kindness of the steak bones tossed his way, and so tolerated the tobacco rain.