Paying dirt farmers to grind down to the bone
A rush of yellows, whites, blues, reds, hints of green - can a decipherable order be behind such lush wet-on-wet couplings?
A decipherable order in rows of remnant corn stalks, up against every fence line for so long as the fence lines run parallel to the road. Inputs ordered in late December and who knows whether the grain contracts that seemed so auspicious last March will stand up now.
Three boys, the oldest who ropes goats, the middle who ropes the youngest, and the youngest who breeds a fury that comes from being so small for seemingly so long and unable to envision a future where parity is possible.
What puzzling progeny amidst this fearful symmetry that spells out, in the dust and the dark corners, precipitous decline. Five years now since he stopped running pairs, can’t bring himself to do hired man work, hates country music, hates talk radio, can’t stand the committee setting up shop in his head all day. She’s wiping snotty noses and teaching whole language reading and hasn’t gotten poisoned by it yet but her stoicism rankles him a bit too. A sink full of dirty dishes and 11 am Coors light in the shop, just to make the pitiless wind, working away on a piece of siding, halfway tolerable, and no exorcism in sight.
Square pizza on a plastic tray, chocolate milk, and everything is red letter, until third recess and a straight jab from out of nowhere bloodies the oldest’s nose and no he’s not crying it’s just he can’t see straight for minute and he’ll catch more hell tonight for not giving it as much he took it. Will have to eat his cornflakes standing up tomorrow, on account of the domestic ass whooping, and he’ll remember each crystalline moment of this sequence for so long as he still remembers anything, but what will sting most is the piteous looks from the brothers across the table and how they try to revive some semblance of talk before the bus comes and it doesn’t help but call attention to how badly broken it’s all gotten.
All types of orders are decipherable, if not recoverable, so long as the breakaway coordinates aren’t bludgeoned into oblivion or deprived of all attention, confined to the bleak bounded lines of what rarely counts as meaningful.