Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
“Try me. I’ll be honest and tell you if it sucks. Fetch you the truth, and put it in a bucket.”
She chuckled at that as she reached for her necklace and played with it, running the purple pendant between her thumb and forefinger as she looked out the window. It matched the silky purple shirt and mid-length skirt she was wearing.
“How can you tell me if it sucks if you don’t know what good poetry is?”
“Well hell. I know what sounds good. Like a song… What sounds sincere. You ain’t got to be no expert in all things to understand quality. We can go to a five star restaurant and appreciate the entrees, or realize after a few bites that they’re overrated, made with cheap, canned ingredients. It doesn’t require us goin’ to cookin’ school first, now does it?”
“I guess I can’t argue with that… I want to correct you on something you said today though.”
“What’s that?” He shot her a quick glance as she continued looking out that window, almost as though she was expecting someone to show up in the blur of trees.
“You said you weren’t my type, and I told you it wasn’t that simple. You are actually my type. That’s the problem.”
He wrestled with those words for a moment or two. Pinned them down. Gave them a good hammering.
“Let me hear that poem of yours. Tell me any one of ’em that you want. Your choice.”
“I haven’t written in a long time. Busy with work ’nd such.” She exhaled loudly, then faced him. Her eyes were big pools of liquid black love, her lashes the diving boards, and all he wanted to do was take a long, deep swim. Drown in all those verses, stanzas, rhymes and reason.
“I’m ready. And uh one! Uh two!”
She laughed, then nodded. “Okay, I’ll do it.” She cleared her throat. “This one is called, ‘The Orphan Country Girl’…
The top of a riot sits inside of me…
A calm before a rolling storm.
I try to make sense of all the noise.
What’s chaos for me, is the world’s norm.
I rarely feel sorry for myself
But many say that I should.
Sometimes I scare myself
With how I pretend to be kind ’nd good.
Blood on my hands is relief
Pulling out the organs: pink, white and red.
I want to punch my life in the face,
But I’m better off playing with the woolly dead.
See, the dead don’t judge you.
They just lie back and stay awhile.
And when I get ’em all pretty for display,
Their eyes are alive, and their lips curl in plastered smiles.
Don’t much make me sick.
Don’t much make me mad.
Except for the mama I lost.
And the daddy I never had…
Sometimes the pain of the past is great.
It stabs my heart like a knife.
So, I pretend to be God
And bring the dead back to life.
Just so somethin’ll love me.
With a needle and thread, I mend.
Dead rabbits hop, departed coyotes hunt,
Once again… even if it’s only pretend.
They’ll get to live forever.
Eternity in this world.
But what do I know?
I’m just an orphan country girl…”
She turned from the window and eyed him, still pulling at that necklace.
He reached for her hand, but she pulled away. Slowly. A hesitation of the flesh. A slowing of the mind.
“Give it here.” He reached for her again and this time, she obliged. He squeezed her hand tight, pressed his fingers against hers. It felt like their flesh was melding. A heated embrace of palms and fingertips. He was reading her lifeline through a handheld clasp. She felt familiar, and yet, he barely knew her. “I liked your poem. It was real good.”
“…Thanks.” She sniffed and turned away, but kept her grip on his fingers. Squeezing back.
“Why’d you choose that particular one to share with me?”
“I have no idea why.”
“Maybe ’cause you wanted me to know, but instead of tellin’ me how you felt directly, it was safer to say it with words that rhymed.”
She looked straight out the front window, turning off whatever was happening. Disconnecting like an old phone line. A faraway look of misery crept across her face. Then, it vanished, replaced by a blank canvas. He wanted to paint sunshine and love all over that vacant piece of art. She was words on a page that couldn’t be read.
He turned the music back on, keeping it on low volume—‘Pardon Me, I’ve Got Someone to Kill,’ by Johnny Paycheck.
“Kage, I found you alarmin’, brash and rude, but I have a confession.” She kept her gaze straight ahead. “From the moment I was waiting for that tow truck at your house, I’ve found you easy and at times, even fun to talk to. I looked forward to your calls, even though you didn’t get flirty until a bit later… and then, the flirtations made me smile, but I didn’t want you to know it. You saw through all of that. Normally, I’d be upset that you didn’t accept my rebuffs, but I know that I was lukewarm. Lackluster. Lyin’ through my teeth. You just saw through my duplicity, even the times I was lyin’ to myself.” She turned back to him, black rainbows in her eyes. “With all of your rough edges, your soul is smooth. It shines like new gold and polished diamonds. Easy to hold and cradle.”