Free Provillus Review

Blurring of the shape
A man the stage his guitar in a Dirty diner, may possibly be Mexico, Texas or everyplace in the Deep South of the dear ancient USA. Rock spews into the planet from a jukebox at the back, all Johnny Cash, Elvis Presley and all those additional rockers no one remembers but is “Darn toot’n” all the same. He looks over, sees some guy roll in, all black leather, greased hair and no rank but ignores them, he is a over and done leftover in his western, shirt, jeans and hat a on foot oxymoron as it clashes with his Native American facial appearance he doesn’t see he just the stage. He the stage a song from long ago or from the unsociable future, a song of weddings and funerals, of the excellent lord bright down and Lucifer blowing his huge “ol” cloud of smoke down not more than. It is a song of weigh, of frankness, of fresh starts and new ahead of schedule development, it is peace’s song.
* * *
In a sickbay down the way of New York a female is charitable birth, she pants as the baby continues it’s slow and awkward journey into the planet. Owing to the pain she hears a machine scream its tinny displeasure at the state of her vitals, all around are doctors reassuring, read-owing to, assisting, but even with all their best hard work she subdue can feel herself slipping like a kid lifting a too gray load, no real grip just perched there ,coming up ,falling. As she cascade she remembers the look on her fiancées face as she told him about the pregnancy “all lit up like a kid on Christmas daylight” as her Daddy would say, she remembers alternative insignia, birthing lessons and choosing names. She remembers her fiancée being paid his conscription letter, him kitting up and marching off in a generous parade.
She can subdue retract the hours washed-out prose calligraphy of like, hope and pride, of preparing post of cookies, clothes and mane of hair, of answers sent on scraps of paper. A quake overtakes her as the recalls the day when two men dark of dress and eye grow on her door step, well place on and groomed with the look one can only get when they are about to teach terrible news. They entered the house like men waking on holy disturb a curfew, worried to upset, to stir as if his moral fiber subdue lingered surrounded by. The taste of the Cute tea she had set dances on her tongue as the news rushed back into her thoughts,”It was a bolt from the blue attack over a renowned combat zone… Every have a crack was made to revive him… Honest head wounds… Died en send to sickbay… If there is any affair we can do… We’re wretched for you loss ma’am.
She remembers this and then not anything
* * *
As the man frenziedly to play he started to sing, the lyrics melding with the song. …Can’t scour up if I cried when I read about his widowed bride, but something touched me deep inside. The day the composition died.
* * *
She awoke to find herself in noting

This entry was posted on Monday, October 12th, 2009 at 3:13 am and is filed under women-hair-loss. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.