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By Bonnie Enes Jilly walked on your Corvette today, left goat-hoof gouges in the forest green paint. Aware of this before you are, I sit at the kitchen table drinking a glass of wine, numbing myself against the impending doom while studying the ivy hanging in the pot above my head. You slam open the kitchen door, mouth running and, instead of inhaling the heat of your rage, instead of being sliced by your words: You idiot! You fool! I conjure up Neil Young: Hey, hey, my, my, rock 'n roll can never die... As your skin shades from Irish pink to Italian red (am I the only one who ever sees you display this ability to facially travel between your nationalities), darned if Neil doesn’t appear behind you, holds out his hand to me, leads me out the back door and down the hill where the wild roses bloom. My, my, hey, hey, rock 'n roll is here to stay... Neil lies down and gently (since he’s gone unplugged) pulls me down to him, as your fist slams on the table, causing wine to slurp out of the glass, leaving red tears on pine and you shout: To make enough to afford a car like that! But, there’s still more to this picture than meets the eye... Hey, hey, my, my, rock 'n roll will never die... Neil and I, do not skip a beat, as the intensity intensifies. You dead stop, look into my eyes, know I’ve tuned you out. In the black pools you see what’s going down with Neil and me, and as our heat, our humidity forces a wet heaviness into your words, you give it up, ask me if I want to go upstairs. I hold back for just a moment, My my, hey, hey, rock 'n roll is here to stay… til Neil and I are finished. |
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Document last modified on: 12/09/2006