On The Long Run Out Of Mississippi City

by dschapman

It was two days out of town by then and from the bus we laid our heads upon our hips and sang our songs to ourselves with a hamburger in every hand and a bottle of root beer. There then in that dreary desert with our kisses smiles and gentle handshakes as I pat you on the back then there we laid out with our shadows wishing, in our leather, in the path, laying there, some day, forever. My thoughts return to the house in the field at the edge of the city and the mansion on the broken hill. I slipped on the sidewalk and called all the cops and they came to me, oh yes they did the come to me as I called them, beckoned from their little building, in fast cars up the walls of the valley, cavaliers of the wicked city. It was a wild wind that came in then and it rattled the windows and threw a limb through a screen and lay nearly dead on the floor. I sat there in silence and my voice cracked. What had I done? Where was I going? I didn’t think, then. I’ve never thought. In a world without thoughts there is not any language, no one speaks, beautiful women (he called them his maidens) all cease to exist. There is nothing there but the long running darkness, wide as hell and too heavy to bear. All this, because I am just limited. Weary, but we have to keep riding… The bus rattles, we’ve been on this weary road before, we see the white horizon curving away, the repetition of the telephone poles like a broad picket fence, fencing the good burdens in, the bad people deep and sleepy, rubbing their eyes. There are no people here, just faces, and the faces themselves give away when you look at them; there is nothing to say, there are no other bodies, it is its inner existential song, mistempered and completely incommunicable. I shouted, and the curtains fell, and I laid down on them and I promised.