To Her and Her Record Player

—A revolution by a bunch of hippies bitching about global warming and ending this fucking war is going to be met with a swift boot between the temples. Not to say there shouldn’t be a revolution.

She’s right about everything. Red hair like the Mustard River in spring. Cynical as an elderberry bush.

Cursed with a beauty so great there’s a divine joke in it somewhere—a couch in the middle of a corn field, twisted on mushrooms when the perfect song comes on community radio, while we try to sleep on the spring-loaded carburetor outside the cleanest truck stop in the Southwest.

Dried salt and bone on the dashboard. No work out here. No outlets to plug in record players.

Sing that bad luck lullaby till there’s no time anymore. Till the records are charred and black. Till those twisted curls lock the concrete.

All that hair. Little miracles inside the wet fibers at the tips. Divinity dried and decapitated.

The smiles reflect off the faded bricks. On the backs of the blue collars. Dour and pointless. But they shine like river guts. Thanks to you.

Steven J. Rogers is an avid canoesman and beardsman from Northern Wisconsin. Alas, he currently lives in Los Angeles, California. Steven is not an absolutist, so he is willing to accept the idea that there might be a hell. If there is, he’s pretty sure that it would involve writing bios. He has a BA and MFA which he’d happily trade for some beer money. To learn more about him, and his upcoming publications please visit https://stevenjrogers.ink.

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