flatlands

The great plains are greater than any plain old words could speak.
They stretch and pull like an old green sweater- stained and uncuffed.

We passed through. We cut them across the center right to left, then left to right.
Then later we would cut them again.
Dividing and then forgetting. Driving and then throwing a big gulp in their many garbage cans at their many gas stations. Fields of gas stations and burger shops kept our needs well maintained and harvested our digestibles.

We would meet few, but sit and create stories regarding those we ignored. An abusive mother putting expensive gasoline into her unaffordable import. Able to place blame on boyfriends and bald heads and wish her electric bill was a bit lower.

A retired athlete elsewhere ate one too many French fries. Whoops- he would think and I would agree. His belly will grow and he will switch to light beer and wish his knee was unblown-out. Only bowing instead of tipping his waitress and then holding the door for me to let the world know he was a gentle man.

These stories would expand like the plains themselves. Into dreams and a corn field. They would lay on the ground waiting to be milled into syrup and swallowed with cherry flavoring. They grew eyes and hooves and called your name when their utters were at tipping point. Oliver, Jeremy, Natalie, Gus! Read us, reread us, our characters are well developed and you will relate. Stories based on facts then fabricated into the heartland’s exportables- Jim Beam, Sun Chips, maybe-avocados, and universities with sound sportsmen.

What fun we would have while these sights hitchhiked through our minds. We would wonder if they could possibly be dangerous. The times are changing. A stiff thought about Jesus would undoubtedly be less alarming. When the sun sets we will no longer be able to clearly view these thoughts. They will become caped in shadows and distracted by headlights. Our drowsiness will be problematic. How can we possibly veer straight and streak vast expanses with thoughts of hook-handed hitchhikers mooching off our memory ducts. Man oh man, we mean well.

We knew we would exit these plains and it would be soon. By saying soon we will need context. Sooner than a storm cloud can circumvent the south-east, sooner than a mailman can deliver our postcards and most certainly sooner than the time it takes to move into an apartment, find a stable job with benefits, cook three solid meals daily and settle into a pair of slippers while you discuss a tropical spring vacation with a woman you could see yourself marrying. It would take longer than tonite though. We wish we could go all night. Drive further and longer and have enough energy and charisma to talk our way into a free continental breakfast at a hotel we have no intentions of renting a room from. Instead our eyelids droop, our legs tickle and our socks moisten. We sip stale soda and wipe our lips with a sleeve.

For a moment there are zero lights. We have reached an expanse rarely seen by many. Our motor’s rumble is the only pollution this land ingests- our headlights mingling with bright stars and a crescent moon. We aren’t sure whether to turn the music up or turn it off. We are alone, thumping through lands with no need for lights or convenient stores or insurance agencies with fancy lettering bolted to their front door. Hopefully, during this time, we can ignore what isn’t important and speak thoughts saved for the shoeless while breathing calmly and allowing our eyes to dilate to their fullest dilation. A dilation only reached when they roll towards your brain during sleep and death. A dilation so massive a well dressed woman could climb in through them and hang her denim jacket and velvet scarf on eyelashes then slowly remove her moccasins and stockings, her feathery skirt and slimming blouse, her lace-enveloped bra and string-like underwear. Take all these clothes and kick them away raising her naked thigh like a scissor and slowly lowering it onto the center of the retina. She would stand delicately, emancipated and ripened. Fluttering her painted fingernails along various curvatures and singing like the keyboard player from that concert so long ago. She would turn and become silent. Her back displaying a posture sculpted from marble. She would dive into a dark lake and float forever. This would be possible for a few minutes in which we are alone within the Great Plains.