Out Where Only Trains Live

…the bottle hanging in the wind, twisted and running across the desert plains of south Texas, Bob could see for a hundred miles across the desert, only trains lived out here, in the sacrifice of the wasteland, a light typing touch, teardrops of dew in the morning of San Brisas, where time did not exist, and the sun rising over the Zacatacos Mountains to the east, hiking before the fires of ’03 took the forest down to the ground, up the mountain in the morning, Mount Zacatacos, then pop off the trail after

… waters of Woodland Falls under Turbulanto, the desire to be swept down the falls and over the boulders, over to Gran Mapache …

summiting, chased into the brush by groups of loud hikers, pulling out the cheese and nuts, then stopping at the cantina in Evian on the way back, and pigging on some kind of delicioso combo platter and downing two glasses of merlot, then a move down the block to the Spellican River Winery, where Rhonda who was fonda wine was lighting up the room with its peppery reds and sweet apple whites, ran through a long flight, sampling the current cellaring, then bumming a Gazelle Broad from Rhonda and taking the west route home, buzzin’ like a cousin, hitting the curves of 979 West through the trees and along the creek bed, back home to Swells Beach and Lexington Street, from elevation to sea level, the roar of the waves from three blocks away, louder at night when the jets ceased their flyovers on their way to Aileron International, the quietude of September Eleventh, all flights grounded, tears and speculation, Onshore Brews and fresh pack of smokes to burn and ingest the events of that day, the Swells Beach Chili Cook-Off each June, Hernando falling in love with the pair of spectacles at Cane and Brittle Antiques on Santa Rosanna, the first night at Teddy’s, Bob headbanging and getting drunk, then stumbling out to the beach, first look at the Pacific up close and out of a car, meeting the guy outside, but his words escape, smoked a lot of cigarettes and woke up with a case of headbanger’s whiplash in the tool shed converted to bunkhouse in the back of the house on Hampstead Street, the house that Ian chased the panty bandit from and caught up with him cowering in a neighbor’s yard, campfires with freestyling local rappers, campfires with surfers at the beach, the fog creating a hypersea, walking around S.B. with Jane and almost falling off the sidewalk, looking for something, more beer, more cigarettes, more agony and regret, leaves of autumn shed in mahogany rain, waters of Woodland Falls under Turbulanto, the desire to be swept down the falls and over the boulders, over to Gran Mapache, and the requisite mountain town fudge shop, finally some rain at elevation as relief from weeks of swelter down at sea level, the creepiness of Aqua Country, the impatience of tourists filled with free beer at the Frankl pavilion, the ISMOF Intrepid Expo of Courage in ’87, tightropes and cycle riders high in the sky, the monorail of love and hand holding, the sense of flying over the landscape, back to another time…


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