Dying is fury, the fury of sunsets. Dylan Thomas, tells us: “Fight, fight the dying of the light.” I always picture that scene through the haze of smoke, late at night. When I smell cigarette smoke, I can hear country music: a bending steel guitar, the quick-quick-slow of a two-step, and the cool trickle from a long neck keeping time. I hear Loretta telling me she wants to be free through the pop and hum of curves on my old albums, when the needle on a RCA record player rolls over the vinyl hills of Williams’ highway, lost, like youthful promises, to a bend no one can see around. I would rather watch flowers wilt, wither, than dust collect on silk and plastic, forgotten on the shelf through the shuffle of days. Dying is hard, I think. Sinking down into a mattress, I fall to pieces, my weight dropped…like a beat between bars. Consciousness is hard. When boots scuff across a wooden planked floor, there’s a meter to that heal, crushing starts and ends. Rage rushes through these hisses and hums of mono, of imperfect acoustics to accompany killing and drinking and fighting songs sung through a sneer, like Johnny does, or, against a driving train rhythm that just pushes on, like a heart beat, like a pulse, like blood rushing through veins.
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