Take It Easy, Roy - Part 1

Roy lit into the sixer with a passion and vengeance previously reserved for the electric blues. He was going to blur his impressions and salivate all over his cigarettes and cut loose his trapped jollies. A woman named Rose Hawk had twisted him up and left him like a wet rag that had dried into a twisted shape. A twisted dry rag shape is no shape for a man. So the beer and the smokes. Perhaps he could smoke himself out of his cave and then dry himself off in the breezy night air. Spring was not yet here but the wind carried with it the slightest trace of something other than pure cold. There was something in there that could be used to hack into the night. The night as metaphor. The night as dark windy opportunity.

Hawk Rose. The Hawk that feeds on the Rose. Her with her fringes and the smell of suede. Eyeglasses in the shape of clams and freaky pills in her palms. She bit the face off the moon and turned it into moisture. The moisture of tears and of creamy skin. The moisture of waxy lashes. Hawk Rose, why did you have to turn out this man and twist him into a raisin? Roy used to have a proud face and eyes like marbles. Now he looks like a bag of cheese.

But Roy, do you need to take it so rough? Have you forgotten how to turn rough stuff into rough blues stuff? Transmogrify and grab that face of the moon for your own glory. Or maybe just crawl into a hole and get lit, you sonuvabitch.