More on: John Blair

The how, the where are clear enough: you left one place, arrived another, but not whole, and groaning like a sax gone short on breath, the wail of way too late to ever roll the evening back to sober, slate to clean, forgive to forget, road unglazed with ice— too late to take it back…

The sun, the darkness, the winds are listening…. —Geronimo, Chief of the Bedonkohe Apache   Boys, I shit you not, it’s Oklahoma, Billy says, the Red River more red than river squatted under the border bridge like the raw ass-end of Mars, dry skin peeled under the flying rubber of Billy’s bald tires. As I drive…