Our real heroes were born in the dank musty dark of banjo barn rooms, rested in hay and dirt and whiskey sweat. They grew up on old wooden porches with tall pretty mothers in sundresses and gin and tonic. They played harmonica and explored the rivers and tripped on slip sliding rocks, all in the buff and with a gusto we can only hope to imagine. They started fires with their cocks and played cards with their chests, eyes flying to the beat of billowing smoke and more of that harmonica. Swimming on their backs in dry heat summer they raised you and I to feel it all the same.
No – better.
They fought and clawed and fucked and went through all of it just so we could taste it ourselves, and thank emptiness. Shadowy fall is in full effect now and kids are in the other room necking and if anyone just gave pause and thought it over, everything I’ve said would make sense and we could talk. This isn’t to say what you’ve read is good writing, or even worth your time. But it would make sense, so who cares?
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