The Boys of Summer

I’ve settled on our genre.

We’re lovers on the run.

Perpetually moving,
On a consistent high speed, sub-machine gun clad chase away from the rumors of responsibility.
Every loud, potentially uncalibrated step meant to elude the forebears of age and time.
Our guns blaze across the sunbeams emitted off our convertible,
Bullets are stashed for those who dare question the authenticity of our youth.
Every attempt to tame us met with the answer of our insatiable commitment to each other.
Hotel room beds are devoured to prove it.
But it’s no matter because we’ll learn how to mend them in a the iron-casting class we would take on the way.

Deserts and range upon range of mountains, “awful blue they are”, valleys displacing into signposts with lizard kings standing on them, swinging by us as we tear through road maps
We’re on the way to Paris. No to Dublin. To Mexico City rather.
We don’t have the blues but we’re running like we do anyway.

We cut through a small town reminiscent of both our homes along the way.
In a slow motion sequence we take the Bank of America by charm and wit.
The tellers are laughing at us, applauding us, handing over the money Goldman took on loan.

Another night while you’re sleeping like a casual burrito.
I steal away to a vault on the Paramount Lot
and snatch a 35mm copy of Harold and Maude

We project it against a canyon wall in Joshua Tree.

They definitely won’t let up on us after that one.
You’re telling me no romantic gesture, no matter how grand it may seem is worth such fury it may hurl at us.
And I just sit back, turn up our playlist to carry over the tunes of the police sirens, whispering
“Still Worth It.”

Ours is not solely a lustful reign of fear and mindless anarchy

It is one passionate of engagement our surroundings,
of the pre-teens and k campers who clamor for views of our impersonations,
of impossible renditions and re-enactments of Our Town & Once
done with a time-travel twist.
We engage and entertain our local populace, charming them into submission, into our collaborative efforts to make it all better for everyone, if only for a second.
You with your hair-tossing charisma and magnetic magnetism
and Me with my self-deprecating elongated stories of times that mattered less eons before you.

Hell, we’ll even document all of it, those creeps on the NSA switchboard be damned
Every eroding aching step
All those night moves through offbeat paths with soundtracks of dad rock and Acousticky-Choir-Gentleman
Every one of the hidden gestures that harken to secret interests that no documentarian can bear witness to

Our reign draws to an end.
We don’t hit the ground together like we’re supposed to.
“They won’t let us be together,” you say in the fallout.
Dying with spirits fading you implore me to keep my eyes Forward regardless.
“You’ll be fine. I know it.”

I swerve through the vultures on the road when one of them drops a letter into my window.
Like lovers in wartime, you update me on your progress.
Shackled to the lines of responsibility, to normality, you tell me of your punishment in the form of being forced to marry the town real estate boy.

In a dream you ask me,
“Have you ever been out of yourself?”

We continue to exchange letters across enemy wiring
Our passion and love lives so long as it retains its tangibility
It is an unspoken promise of return
Of not a maybe, but a when.
In the meantime, sugary coffee and cherry pies at diners with flirty waitresses will suffice.

Missions remain clear.
As do the deer hurling their young through leaves and blades of loveless haze.
Nights wander uphill drunk into the morning suns.
Months fold into one another with the hustler train passing through every available minute.

Two months have gone by.
I’m at a BP gas station lit exclusively in fluorescent and it hits me with the full force of a buffalo rampage:

You never came with me.

The driving comes exclusively at night from here on out
My soundtrack is only what I can imagine you would listen to

The possibility emerges,
that I have been diagnosed with the decade old Latin American Curse,
of shadow above substance,
of temporal than permanence,
of a casual want than a desired need.

I’m after all the one who’d most certainly have led to a shared demise under a hail of moon-dipped bullets.

But maybe I missed something that He caught.

Maybe there’s some magic my excellent detective skills missed

The form of all of this is called into question
And I’m no longer raging across highways but stampeding through a keyboard at 2:46 in the morning in the labyrinth of this all

if all these 7 past exorcisms
all carved into the sky with a plane writing in clouds
were all just temporary effusions
or a pathetic attempt at a siren call to reverberate through the wire hangers separating us.

This particular attempt will be the grand net cast to get the General-All-Of-It.
The mess and coffee stains of its gorgeously clad entirety.
This will be my wine drained, CinemaScope, 70mm, Gone With the Wind style-Epic
A western. No a noir. A tale of love with no regret. It’ll best summarize it all.

It’ll Fail.
But it’ll also be the Last of Them.

Seasons collapse into one another
Beaches are abandoned
Camp sites dismantled
Little else is left over
The sun that always caked us over the inflatables crosses over to the blacktop one last time.

With the Don in the front seat and a handful of gentlemen ready to deliver to you the a cappella version of the Anthem-Of-Return,
we drive by your house,
and like Don predicted,
you’re not home.

I let out the boys of summer on the corner,
and in reverse, I’m on the road to an unknown beach in Buenos Aires.


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