Note the fiberglass sculpture of a Barfly lady. It is modern. A rancher is upright in its presence, slack waisted, trembling in his legs, one palm on his hip and the other loose in the air beside him. Three months ago, he was thrown on his ranch. He is here because the nearest facilities to treat his fractures and avulsions are here.
“Daddy! What are you doing out of your chair?” asked his daughter, returning from the restroom.
“I’m standing for a lady.”
It was her mother that died that day, three months ago. The impact broke the artery to her mother’s heart. They were already headed for El Paso that day for her regular treatments when the simplest mistake caused the old rancher to slide his truck down an arroyo. He was thrown and could see his wife in the car as it came to rest. She was awake. She looked to him. The old rancher is a tough son of a bitch but laid helpless as she dropped her head and died.
That tough son of a bitch stood staring at that sculpture as his daughter cradled his loose palm in her’s.
The one way I might explain myself is through a form of recipe. She is The Wanton Song and Four Sticks, glitter and blowers in flashing machined light, a mirror from floor to ceiling and side to side, jelly and the mechanical bull!
The Red Haired Winged Lion brought with it a daylong gust strong enough to blow all the shit everywhere. Goddamn. Now it is time to begin again to hold every man accountable. It is time for a reordering and opening a mythic hell to put it in. The Red Haired Winged Lion brought with it a portrait of itself to spread amongst heartbroken friends to gather in a draining, wrenching summons asking, “Did you know? Could you have conceived?”
Now the portrait must be burnt and along with it, the music it had made. It is hoped that the wind will blow all the shit away. It is ugly out.
The American garage teen, a masterpiece of canvas sneakers and natural ripped jeans, shouted insult and love songs through a plastic sheathed dirty screen microphone jacked so loud that the dogs howled. A boy with long hair is the beauty queen of the night scene playing 101, Gdansk and The Campus Queen. Those bars are all dead now. Chics, high on acid, meditated on the tricks of light and sound, smoking deep putting more lipstick on one night in the front row of a show. It was all for show, better than movies or TV.