They traveled across Route 66 leaving behind them a peculiar trace... A trace of blood!
This road trip was nothing like he ever dreamed of. After all, his girl was a pornstar with the mouth of a poet and strange things happen in the mind of a troub...
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Vive La Santa Chiquita!
Goddamn, Harry was a native son of the golden west. And alas – The west was weird! From the emerald lagoon to the vast Savannah he'd wander with the dusty boots in his hand to feel the sand beneath his bare feet.
Harry could stroll around the world in Nora's eighty kisses. He wouldn't get dizzy traveling south, he wouldn't fall as he'd walk upside down, the rings wouldn't slip from his fingers, only his hair would swing and tangle. Nora's loins were catacombs, clandestine lodges where Harry sensed the whispering prayers, the bones of the moribunds abrading under the cobwebbed shrouds. In the underworld, the dewdrops of the webs are the adorning diamonds for the unremembered. Harry was sensing everything. The force overwhelms!
The limbs of the dead rattle in the stone graves as they tremble and wave. Harry was watching everything in his travels. The world could fit under his shameless tread. The same face, day after day... The same face Nora would encounter once he'd return from his overworldly orbit.
'How is it possible?', he'd ask, 'It's truly peculiar I tell you! Round and round and round the world I went but I never gazed upon a different sky from the one when I'm with you as you remain tall and young and tan and lovely'
Each unraveling stitch was scraping his ol' blue-jeans more and more. The threads were hairy and wooly with worn and goofy edges. Small, creased, crimson threads that form circles and wrinkle in his palms. Harry would kick the ball he'd make out of his patches watching it slide like tumbleweed.
'Tiny little red threads are tangled between your fingers', he wished to whisper to her when he'd return from his explorations, 'I've known everything you scheme to please...', he'd return to her like a twirling pebble never discovering the utlima thule where the oceans drip turning foams to stars, 'My blue-jeans' wasted, lover', he'd have the courage to say staring at her face with the rosy color of the distant horizon, 'A dusty Levi's and my love for you, that's all I have... Do you miss me when I'm with you or when I'm long gone and far away?'
How could pour Nora answer to this? He'd rather ask her how a circus managed to fit in a flipper game! His fingertips turned white when he hit the buttons and the ball jotted to the top like a boogie-woogie bullet rolling back for him. The silver ball wins when Harry loses.
Harry was a man whom Nora wouldn't choose for her glory hole, she'd preferred him as her lover. His shoulders hid his neck as he leaned over the glass and played. His mouth was red hot like gunpowder and marble. A pistolero with a full piece stuffed behind his belt, he pulled it like an outlaw but he could only admit that he was a cranky rebel.
Nora and Harry were the kids their parents warned them against. Two backstreet beatniks with a heart made of lead and petals, with dreams scenting of jasmine. Sometimes, he couldn't make something out of her. How could he? Everything he did, it was for her eyes to see for he belongs to her. That's all he has to know.
