Cornfield Moonscape

We took a ride in the countryside. We headed south past the cows with the windows in their sides. Studies in digestion. College of Agriculture: leaders in the field, their cows having portholes somewhat similar to cruise ships. Sometimes, they leak. You can see the spleen, the stomach, the intestines. There's a helpful diagram stuck to the low fence post. I noted the straw stuck in the puss. My sides hurt. I could see the empty beer bottles left by the frat boys after some late night cow tipping.

We peddled past the cows and their portholes gradually scorched through the cornfield moonscape to Danville--home of the Pink Bar. No houses, no pick ups, no nothing for miles in the midday sun. We saw a barn in the distance. We went inside and opened the "pissing...pissing?...don't piss inside...."

"I'm not. I'm pissing through a crevice....a slat."

" I hope you get a splinter."

Climbed up into the loft. The ladder so weathered from years of abandon or so we thought. I laughed as it was so idyllic. A picnic in a barn on a sunny day.

We heard a gunshot.

"Get your hands up."

David did the talking. We conversed from fifty feet at gunpoint. He had a long hunting gun cocked against his shoulder, so his words were a bit muffled. He'd have to be a good shot. You could call it trespassing. You could also call it two people taking a rest and simply catching some shade. Shade and hay was the only thing to steal.

That bar. He must have been a regular at Pink Bar. It was pink bar only because it was pink, nothing to do with rainbows. John, Shilan, and I drove there once in the fuck bus. "Danville or bust." John slurred it out with a drooling southern gleam in his eye. We were only going there to marvel at their pick-up truck ways---(back in the day when people drove pick ups to haul grain and livestock feed) and the grass in their teeth. John went in first and came out and said....we better leave...Right Now.