Introduction: This was previously published in All That (Moneypenny Press, 2008) in a small edition put together by Crag Hill.
Failed Novel idea
She stood five foot four inches barefoot now loose blond hair rather ratted. She stood with a 1930s silk slip to her knees. The house was cold and damp. The creek was at flood stage. Late December deep in the north coast California redwoods. She hacked more than once and spat out the door. “Damn, I love this drug,”
If anyone is interested in studying queer behavior in the late 90’s this is a good place to begin. He waltzed into the room behind her and asked to borrow (a) the 1930’s slip and (b) her bazooka (slang for hypodermic needle from Anna Kavan novel Ice). It was that kind of relationship and there was little doubt that the dog would suffer. Standing in the rain-soaked yard barking loudly as if to announce his hunger. Tough shit old thing. First things first and you ain’t even on the list.
Across the rising creek sat a poet. He was looking for a sock. If he could see it he would get up. It was under a Webster’s New World Dictionary and would stay there until he wrote the poem. Just another rain. He had the idea all right and could see the two across the water and in fact due to the porch they shot on the reflection in the water. Perhaps this would inspire him to do more than conceive of a title. The dog barked over all of it.
Jim McCrary lives in Lawrence, KS with his wife, Sue Ashline a painter. Latest work coming in an anthology of text based on thoughts about the I35 corridor which splits us here in the middle. Latest DIY chapbook Red Hot Sonnets. Working on new series titled Late Lost Last poems. Has outlived all his expectations and turns 80 in September.
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