Sunday, September 4, 2016

Hawk Season Notebook #265



Hawk Season Notebook #265

The Rapture. Farmyard to farmyard missionaries... angle back to their car once a broken Holga camera is produced. Sensitive to graven images of themselves. You swing arms back and forth... simian. You grunt... offer a gravel-voiced, Jasus syphilitic Christ, with a counterfeit County Derry, Ireland, accent. The missionaries drive away, their old Camry rattling over protrusions of scab rock on the two-track. Hours later you stand in weekday-midnight darkness, consider if the Bible is graveyard-sprawl of dislocated ghosts... give wonder to the possibility that Purgatory is the sum of an ill god's last mortal imaginings. You are alone in the darkness, the gray-haired Dublin bookman said, no matter. Not quite alone, no. Coyote yip and bark.

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