MENTAL BREAKDOWNS, SUBSTANCE ABUSE, AND RUSTY FARM EQUIPMENT; BURLEY

This morning I discovered that I have over twenty corncob pipes and not a single container of sh*tty drugstore tobacco to smoke in them. Nor do I own bib-overalls or a tractor. So I shan't be spending the day "gardening" in the south forty. I've cleaned up all these pipes except for the freehand from decades ago. I might open a tin of something blended by Bob Runowski.

I shall happily suffer the kick in the jaw that Burley blends provide.
Might even indulge in some sweet ice-tea, country style.
While listening to imaginary trains.
There is no banjo.


If the particles are fine enough they'll float in the suspension.


No American whiskey, chicken-fried steak, or pumpkin pie with cool-whip. Nor any country music about Jesus, my pick-up truck, or the jail house. There are no hounds.

I don't think I could pull off "rural American" if you paid me.
But I might wrench myself if I tried.



There are no cicadas on the West Coast. It's the edge of the planet. We are out of tune with the rest of the country. We have murder hornets and tarantula hawks instead. This, truly, is the end of the river, the water all flows backward here. Never get out of the boat.

TOBACCO INDEX


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