along old highway 80

The curtains looked like they came out of 1974 and the carpet reeked of hippy smoke and faded orange Somewhere, someone coughed a few times. Then another.

And I remember how they talked of the rapture as if they could recapture 1974 in an old burlap sack on a sandy plain The smurfs sang dirges in the rain and we watched the tepid cigar smoke stain and bleed on itself

Help me Rhonda played on Saturday nights and we avoided the dances and took our chances with formality and sanity and chastity and Golly Gee is blasphemy in Sandy towns where hawks soar over the glade and make love on moonlit nights in the backseat of a Bonneville.

Can you get there from here One Tree Hill it's not that far down a battered pickup-truck-road and the flow is go home and black ballads were heard and students everywhere spoke this word

and fell and swam and flew and ran through the forest by the train while the smurfs sang dirges in the rain

I remember November and winter falling through walls in the heart of December and baptism and sin were no less than same as if I were playing some relevent game