Posieden

My mother’s pain followed me that Summer, like a June bug descending. in a misty July reign. Pervasive like a sieve. Her inertia was infectious. A muddle as I breathed, in line, I was, for a movie I saw a million times but never got to see... Gene Hackman combed his hair to one side to relate a tail of whoa! Whoa! Whoa, hold on there Gene -- it all falls from grace, from providence! They placed you on that set in a bad turtle-neck sweater, such nasty foul weather, tumbled that ship to flounder. A mood turned upside down. But you didn’t drown a sunder. I did. Awash in love, from someone above; it swelled to pull me under.