An Ode to Outlaws in Love
Shoulder-blades glistening with desert sweat… White tank-top rippling against her breasts in the hot, sandy breeze… Hawks circling overhead in an otherwise empty azure sky… She returns from the general store with a sultry walk and the sun glowing in her black shades, her hips swiveling in the cradle of tight, tattered jeans. Her newfound partner in crime tosses the duffel bag of recently counted cash back into the open window of his Trans Am, his grasp now awaiting the frigid, stinging sweat of an ice-cold beer.
Their hips collide as he takes her in one arm and the beer in the other, tossing the bottle back with eyes shut tight as he gulps the golden brew. He then hoists the woman up onto the hood of the dusty Trans Am with his tattooed arms and gazes up into her devilish laughing eyes… The madness of love and the audacity of youth had taken them this far, and a border tavern’s nightmare had become their getaway dream that they would not let die so easily nor so soon.
They smile into each other’s fiery eyes as they play out their version of a wedding altar stare, perhaps a fleeting premonition of a refugee future in Vegas. His barbarian hands fall to her waist, where his thumbs fumble with the black waistband of her thong peering above her jeans. Then, as if responding to some ghostly, half-heard sirens in the distance, she slides off the hood and they climb back into the low-seated car in the dust… her slender boot the last thing seen touching the ground before it is pulled in and the passenger door is shut.
The sun descends into a pool of flaming phoenix rite, and the desert horizon dances with prisms of heat expunged of any colors but red and gold. Soon the rash of a sky will calm into shades of soothing magenta coolant, jeweled with tiny stars that slyly leak their whereabouts one by one. With a grinding whirr the Trans Am exits in a cloud of torrid dust, the shrinking red eyes of tail-lights splitting amidst the heat mirage before disappearing between cacti silhouettes that are left to greet the night alone.
- (c) Brandon Gene Petit
Dreams in the Womb
http://www.bgpetit.com
Their hips collide as he takes her in one arm and the beer in the other, tossing the bottle back with eyes shut tight as he gulps the golden brew. He then hoists the woman up onto the hood of the dusty Trans Am with his tattooed arms and gazes up into her devilish laughing eyes… The madness of love and the audacity of youth had taken them this far, and a border tavern’s nightmare had become their getaway dream that they would not let die so easily nor so soon.
They smile into each other’s fiery eyes as they play out their version of a wedding altar stare, perhaps a fleeting premonition of a refugee future in Vegas. His barbarian hands fall to her waist, where his thumbs fumble with the black waistband of her thong peering above her jeans. Then, as if responding to some ghostly, half-heard sirens in the distance, she slides off the hood and they climb back into the low-seated car in the dust… her slender boot the last thing seen touching the ground before it is pulled in and the passenger door is shut.
The sun descends into a pool of flaming phoenix rite, and the desert horizon dances with prisms of heat expunged of any colors but red and gold. Soon the rash of a sky will calm into shades of soothing magenta coolant, jeweled with tiny stars that slyly leak their whereabouts one by one. With a grinding whirr the Trans Am exits in a cloud of torrid dust, the shrinking red eyes of tail-lights splitting amidst the heat mirage before disappearing between cacti silhouettes that are left to greet the night alone.
- (c) Brandon Gene Petit
Dreams in the Womb
http://www.bgpetit.com
No comments have been added yet.
