Rocky Mtn

Staying in some sub-par motel in North Carolina. John Denver would not be amused if the front desk clerk came knocking on his door at 2:30 am because he forgot to sign a rate slip. But I ain't John Denver and neither is my ma, we're small-time, yet in our minds we're living large, larger than the cockroach that might come crawl for a cuddle. Cockroaches don't knock on the door and scare two women, but they creep like shadows till you feel their grimy footsteps across your sleeping body. I felt that once in a place I once lived in South Georgia. Oh, the signs of the South. It whistles and blows, sticky, sunshine carries rain and the sky will look like it's on fire, even when it's not. The peaches are indeed sweet, the peanuts are boiled and some people are angry. But there's something to be said for having the passion of anger, the shiver of fear or the drowsiness of remorse, the quick glance of unrest. The South is not a flat-line on a heart monitor where every day is just lovely (even if the folks tell you it most certainly is, such sweet folks them folks are). Spontaneity strikes when the pecan falls from the tree and knocks you on the head, or when someone falls into a fire because he's had too much whiskey and his friends are too drunk to drag him out. Spontaneity strikes when someone pulls the trigger because you're just too white or just too damn black. Gray's a boring color and that's why you hear folks singing the blues down alleyways with rippled washboards, only to hear a cheap imitation years later from someone who all of a sudden just felt it because his girlfriend just dumped him and he learned a new chord on his johnson. No matter how much I may deny it, the South is home to me. Grits are the cure for a nasty hangover, the skirts flatter the hips and the friends never ever let you down. I'm thankful for this connection, even when the stakes are down and someone's glaring at me or I'm shooting daggers right back. It's love in a twisted way, like forcing to share toys with siblings instead of pointing at the sunshine and complaining it's so pretty. I liked the West till I got bored, I'm curious of the North in the summer and the East is pretty familiar, depending on how East we're talking. But the South is its own animal, with sharp and crooked teeth, yet with an aching desire to be fondled and scratched behind the ears.