Find the sinkhole

I have decided to write the gray American novella, where nothing is great just chalky grey like the Greys pasty anatomy of conspiracy theories where secret service reptilian half-breeds are always British.

Meanwhile, the natives are restless and a stretch of doom creeps, breathless.

Jagged ex-whys and all the imagination in dream land won’t fix a fork in the road, bone spurs on a road less traveled, for a reason.

Fourth

Today 6.4 earthquake rattled the spur of land stretching between Death Valley and downtown where dreams are dashed.

And here I sweat on the screen porch taking in the endless human hums from the park nearby–oh how to scream like a child swimming in summer! – the whippoorwill, the engines passing by the old folks, where babies used to be born (I met two), talk about from the cradle to the grave.

It’s summer like I remember, slightly stifling til you’re submerged in cool water, ours a pond, but now all kids in this St. Charles fiefdom are peeing unilaterally in the Powatasookee or, more appropriately, POTTAWATOMIE park pool, mini golf, tennis and ducks-plus fireworks.

This porch reminiscent of Flannery O’Connor or perhaps my mother is a fish but the threat of tornadoes far from exhilarating and my good aunt Jackie has died, and it feels so long ago they things were right.