Norfolk Banks Rag, Side A

Despite the discomfort Bill was all blissed out, porker chasing turkeys down a hill 'top Slider Island. Beef and creamy bunsy, night to dawn, short a shirt, breathin' hard for minimum wage, developing wrist tendinitis, thick guitar chords oozing out strong, quickly surrendering - sidestepping to the carefully-delineated shoulder, near tall, skinny birch trees.

That afternoon, Bill drove through sunlit ivy-covered underpasses. Shadows angled down the highway, and as he peeked the rear-view, his heart sunk as his city retreated. Driving down Kingsley (quarter-mile), thinking about getting off early, really turning the thing on its head, leaving it legs up in the sun. Bill pictured the scene:

An endless drive in a storm of stories, nuisances with wings, headed down east. Billy sighed 'n' rolled his eyes, affirming the family of clouds banded together over their heads, blindly approving of the historian's "analysis" of his ancestry. Maybe drugs would make this trip better. This was truly as comfortable as Bill's bear's lair: neatly organized war novels on the top shelf; pristine non-fiction par with his bloody eyes; cookbooks, transcriptions, and folk tales on the next two shelves. A green crusty old-taled sofa, figurin' for a drink, ridges deep and dark, pronounced "oh-no oh-no." A thick maple kitchen table with two refurbished, sturdy benches that could comfortably seat four, beneath fruit-stained stained glass with dark dirty black lines tracing the shapes of strawberries, pickles, and pears.

Endless driving all afternoon, weaving left turning right weathering the storm's onslaught. As for hope, as for the tunnel's exit light, Bill blinked morosely, took a drag of wild fantasy, and puffed some tumbling white cloth, tan skin, and human touches out the window. The road opened with the tenderness of a pregnant embrace. As if seasoned by the intricate coast and the unfracked Western springs, the signage smiled, the road ricocheted warmth, and inbound chromejets soared in silence. All this was undeniable. Bill had absorbed these violent fistfuls of shackled action before. He'd walked away with his hands in his pockets, and he knew he was headed down that same highway.

They arrived at the old bay house. Bill exhaled to erase the vision of a four-sided dungeon on the cove. She appeared. She wasn't wearing red shoes or a red ribbon in her long strawberry-blond hair. The house lacked a rickety, shingled water tower on its roof. Bill swallowed meekly, and the storm's comedy commenced. Laughs labored as they evaporated into the clean crisp air. Tales flowed as her tumbling white cloth vanquished the crappy little waves in the bay. Seconds later, more plastic planks like the ones on the recliners stirred the scene and punctuated Bill's uphill struggle.

Please turn to Side B.