* 4. *
*
Magic powered by horses crashed across the skies. In the meadows, cows hung like peaches lightly breathing in their fuzz. A little girl walked through the tall grass, red dress dusty, her blonde hair falling out of it’s pigtails. There, off in the distance, was the giggle of a clown.
Trunce, the poet of these parts, sat on a rock that sat on the shore of a small pond that sat at the foot of the hill that now sat where the Alexander house had once sit. But that was so long ago that the papers had rotted and withered and the songs had lost their melodies and the words had broken up and started families and moved on to the suburbs and the periodicals. Trunce had a book that impaired a few, tucked away in a trunk stuffed under his bed. His dress shoes were in there, too. Black and shiny.
Trunce was watching the road that stretched as far away as the eyes could see both to his left and to his right. To his east and to his west. For his yin and for his yang. Trunce was watching the two people pirouetting around this road’s edges.
Trunce could see the hurt on both of their faces. The face of the man wore pride vanquished. He was losing her to something stronger than him. He was helpless. Emasculated. And hers. Hers was the picture of resignation. Her protector was impotent. He was a rag doll that was warm. As their hands slid from each others, fingers disconnecting, Trunce let his tongue fly out to taste the air around. Guilt and resentment. Abandonment and relief.
He breathed them into his cloud of verse and withered into his heart. He was tired of the telling. He wanted water and sun and sleep. Not this. Not this portrayal of tragedy.
Trunce was watching the road that stretched as far away as the eyes could see both to his left and to his right. East and west. Yin and Yang.
The road was unassuming. The boy began his way down it, to the east, and the girl went home to the bed of her children’s god.
Trunce put away his journal and hopped down off of the rock. His legs were tingling from sitting too long. He pulled his balls from between his legs, readjusted the asscrack of his dirty jeans, removed from his pocket, placed on his bottom lip, and lit the small joint he had rolled before he left this morning, and began the long walk towards Pardina.
If everything was going down as planned, there’d be some choice fucking inspiration floating over the burg these days.
Birth sign: Taurus
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