Sunday, August 28, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #251



Hawk Season Notebook # 251

Play. Or Film. She leaves home at sixteen to waitress in Reno, never a further thought for the suburbs of Boise. She calls her breasts teakettles, I am visually appetizing. A dog comes along with its leash unattended... a liver-brown Australian Shepherd-Chocolate Lab mix. It answers to Boomer. Her apartment lease has a No Pets clause. She moves into the garden, hangs a tarp over playground equipment. The landlord soon chokes-to-death on a fast food chicken bone... is not discovered in his apartment for six weeks. Marginalia: selfies get sent to far-off movie studios, there are dates with chino-wearing sporting goods salesclerks, plastic coin-filled mayo jars get buried below the swing set. The spirit lives on isolation. She walks her Boomer to Fallon that winter, buys a canvas tent and a small wood stove, squats to the north on a 40 Acres for Sale lot. A realtor stops by... comes by again... leaves canned meat and carbohydrates from the third visit onward, but it never eases into love. Peyote. An antique store burglary for a pair of moth-eaten bearskin rugs. Chemically-induced changes in starlight. Old Testament orange clouds. Solitude as an American Dream.

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