Thursday, July 17, 2008

Austin, you are my siren's song

Something feels not quite right about summer in New York. As I delve deeper into unemployment, days filled with crumpled sheets and poor posture, Texas pulls at my hem to drag me homeward. With a masochistic thrill, I tie myself up with forms of so very cultural entertainment (see: Friday Night Lights, King of the Hill, the novel Waterloo) that echo my lone heart's true longing while writhing in time to Dale Watson. Where is the dust? And grill-charred red meat? I miss you, porches and lazy mosquitos.

In younger days [and presumably lustier depending on my stake on the wthn (why the hell not) front], my hand manipulated a marker to illustrate a solitary dear Lone Star State and another state (for sake of tale, we'll say New York) with me and hearts floating aimlessly inbetween. How is it that body has followed chicken-scratched art? Rather than feet firmly planted at home, I tug like a marionette or - more aptly - the struggling catch lassoed by Pecos. And he's shooting down those stars with me in the sky. What the hell am I talking about? I guess, what I mean to say is, this place can be a hell hole with no tin cans of cheap beer, dripping grease dream tacos and those faces that become surrounded by more and more people I do not know at all.


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