Rain, wool pants and the last cigar
catching raindrops on my sox and a buzz in my ear.
Headed for the mountains and lakes
first to cut down some mighty trees
and roll some weeds.
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About Me
- Dale Hunt
- He's become comfortable in that ol' civil war jacket. What would compliment that mess of hair? A sage cigarette, a bottle in his hand and a book in his pocket. A hobo at heart a drunk by night and a rambling pain. Tired and old before his time. Studying the greats Bukowski, Tom Waits William S. Burroughs and Hunter S. Thompson, Kerouac and John Steinbeck. Drinking Brandy and Cockspur rum from the bottle. Hiding down South for the winter months running from the cold and consequence.
1 comment:
Jack found him in the creek. Bishop swore he had seen a flock of Peacocks walk by. Jack said they were only Blue Grouse. Bishop said, you should have knocked them off, they have plenty of meat on the bone. Jack started the sermon off loud. The megaphone turned up. Bishop was down, wrestling with the creek bottom, the lash of the spruce, rumbling with the thunder, the creeks caught in his years, walking trails he had better forget. Bishop was coming back. Jack was on a roll. It was unlikely they would ever get their shit together, and head down the road in the same direction.
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