With pockets as empty as my soul I stomped
my feet into my steel-toes and strolled down around the cul-de-sac where the tattooed girls stood. Bakelite baskets with golden clasps wrapped over their inky forearms. Illustrated speedbumps separated and sculpted into deep and geologically improbable bluffs. Lips lathered with poppy-colored puckerpaint from a burned down drugstore. Dresses uninterred from the long-coveted closets of widower's wives. From their mouths poured vanilla pantomime and licorice and there was little for me to do but inhale and succumb to the numbness. One of them grasped my hand and slipped it within the folds of her purse and it made it into the third verse of a forgotten song about the darkness. On the carhood it happened as it should have, and again in the dirt. As the earth spun around towards the fire again it all disappeared, like a cut you had as a child.Copyright 2006 Max Jukes/Brian Edward Hack. No quotation or reproduction of this material without permission from the author. Illustration by max jukes/brian edward hack.
Labels: 1950s, Carhood sex, Cars, Inherited memories, Rockabilly, Tattoos
posted by max jukes @ 8:10 AM
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