whirlwind in thorn tree

i believe in Johnny Cash's America. either that or his conception of just what it means to live under vast open skies and railroad ties.

where the world pushes back (and often first) and, though there's another promising peace, its very unknown-ness (let alone first making it through the gallows and the ghost riders) is terribly apocalyptic. where the years are always between the wars. where you got your lady luck, but she's just about to leave—or you are—and when you marry her, it doesn't work out, but she's the last breath on your lips. where you don't turn in your brother until you have to, and only after a good chase down the abandoned highway, breaking the speed limit to live fast and die young without ever forgetting that the consequences are harsher than you can dream. where it doesn't take more than an arched eyebrow to indicate a whole lot and where too much talking is for weak women who should meditate on their error. where, because people screw up all over the place, you go and play them a concert in prison. where thought can be walked in worn-out shoes. where it's not too much to hope for a mint-condition auto, piecemeal, if you've got more time than money and a good metal lunchbox for the parts. where you've got to want to get off bad enough to want to get on in the first place.