In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

Patsy Cline on the Jukebox, Seven and Seven on the Bar Bitter my tears, and bitter the beer on tap, Not a Belgian brew among them, just this hopped-up local juice. My mouth’s dry and cracked as a Texas riverbed in deep July, Lizards stitching their claws all up and down the stony ruts. I feel too drag-ass low to spin this stool, brain on empty And face on fire, like a homecoming queen in a combat zone. Patsy, I’ve put my buck in that skinny slot. I want to hear you Fall to pieces, crazy after midnight with the lovesick blues. Bartender, wipe your wrung-out rag across my eyes and pour Another slug of that sweet Canadian, this time over ice alone. My drink’s on the rocks, and I am, too. I’m almost ready For Elvis sweating his heart out on a Vegas stage, fat and done. I’m almost down on my knees in the sawdust, praying for Another woman with red hair and three kids and a country croon. • • • 64 ...

Share