met in the park in a white shirt, you know what they say…’anything can happen in a white shirt’… and a long blue button front dress with a cotton sweater tied round the hips…spring time in the prairies six impatient love torn hours drive east and the tiny pearl white buttons went on forever like the white lines on highway 6. ‘It was a Saturday afternoon, romance, between a cowboy and a fool…‘, Nathalie Merchant’s ‘Tigerlilly’ drifts in and out like the mirages of still water on the straightest road between the Rockies and speeds too fast to know better.
pale blue eyes ‘linger on’ like an REM song before Michael Stipe cut his hair, eyes like mine…like my son’s, like my daughter’s…1600 miles and a lifetime between grey blue spendthrift reminders that send me back there, every time I look into a mirror. I cut ‘The Hand of God’ from the Sistine Chapel and cropped it to fit on the back of an envelope…what could come closer to love than touching that hand?
imagine…walking home from work with that stolen treasure and curling up in the corner of the favorite blue sofa, the one with the oversized cushions where the sun warms the white plain through the panes. Letters and stamps and words in pencil on any paper I could find…on hand made pressed linen, on pages in a blue suede Moleskine, on the inside of the label of my favorite salsa that I slipped off running hot water in the kitchen sink – wait, wait, first a corner… no, wait, don’t bend it or it will tear, more water, more time, then there, right there at the tip of my finger, I feel the glue melt and the paper slide off all together intact and completely unaware that it has….shhhhhhhh…the next morning white cottons slid off ankles and were lost on a mattress, on the floor, in an empty basement suite…”Say fuck me and I’ll stop…”
letters and dreams and the lines on prairie highways that cross forever as the north wind envelopes the horizon in a sea of white and the newspaper says a line of six cars followed the sleeping driver off the corner like the time I woke up on the passenger side in the ditch when we went off the road. The tow-truck had that musty smell of men who worked too long too hard and somehow there is always a dog in the cab to keep him company. “Don’t mind the dog”, he says. Random, meaningless, happenstance and coincidence becomes fate and every dress and sweater and fleece, every ad, every song on the radio, every damn post modern Romero and Juliet, everything…yes, even the pale blue reminders that can’t lie to me in the mirror, everything…