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Taylor Graham |
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THE BANGED-UP TRUCK NEWS He knew every con-man's cross- roads in the county. He'd go his own directions; stop and maybe listen for the latest low-down weather in the grasshopper's song, or read trout-tale news in the riffles then come back home turning it this and that-way in his head, and bang something out on the old machine; something outrageous, provocative enough to publish all over the county. HIS LIGHT RUNS DRY A gulp of magpies passes obverse the sun mid-afternoon while the dog tugs the hose around a backyard gone to weeds, and in the kitchen the old man stares at freeze-dried jars and boxes with their mysterious legends of "just add water." No one could mistake this yard this mortgaged house this interminable August for cottonwoods whispering above a creekbed no matter how thirsty. LIVING DEAD The living-room is haunted by its TV screen on which actors (some already dead) replay their parts, as if still not satisfied with the final take from which so much energy was drained by repeated shootings the lighting wasn't right or somebody forgot a line, after all those hours memorizing the unchangeable words a screenwriter puzzled over and crossed out what might turn wrong on a single inflection. Here sits the family watching ghost- images as a plot unfolds forwards and back in the prime time of each parent and child. |