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By chris Date: 2007 May 04 Comment on this Work [[2007.05.04.00.21.17777]] |
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There's no monsoon season here. It's always monsoon season here. Early summer on the coastal prairie, late winter back home up north. Just outside of Beaumont now, driving into the deeper pines, the sundown towns of black and white and loblolly and barbecue. Church of the Holy Ghost, signs that say "butterbeans for sale" but no one's there. "Seminole Wind" on the radio, and I see thunderstorms breaking over the Big Thicket miles away. Sky like the heart of darkness. The oil smell of the Gulf gone, now it's cat-piss ammonia aroma from the paper mills. Then it's no more and it's all warm-pine-needles-on-a- heated-forest-floor. So I breathe it in because the windows are down and I'm breaking every speed limit and though it will rain here soon it hasn't yet. |