Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 05/06/20

I, Writer


My romance language began with music,
stacks and stacks of vinyl records,45 RPM,
Moody Blues, I Know You’re Out There
Styx provided the essential acoustics for a
lonely child playing out stories in her head,
taking on the role of both speaker and listener.
When words failed, I mimicked body language,
creating an atrium of temperate white fabric
domed in multicolored flashing lights and
sprayed with Sweet Honesty perfume.


Sounds brushed hot against the flickers of a page
where images of red bled into purple joined by
the poisoned empires of string, wind, percussion
and drum.
The burned smell of cornstarch, talcum powder,
booger sugar, made me dream of Pan and I heard
his pipes, false god of lyre.
Blue and yellow produced an intimation of green
but it was not a clandestine attempt to mess with
my head. Instead, I saw the destruction of the
rainforests and owned up to my part in it.


I remembered the whites-only sign outside of Al’s
candy store and I can still taste the pulp syrup
of the soda fountain coca-cola as Highway to Hell
played on the jukebox.
Our parents deliciously drunk on tea parties and
apple cider, mostly retired from the military, gave a
mere whisper, taking a backseat to the racism. This
is when I put away my broken crayons and ran way-out
to the open road past the segregated streets to a
trip down Route 66. I spent a night beside a truck
driver where we both pretended to be outlaws.


200 filtered Chesterfield King Size cigs coated my lungs
with the prospect of driving through a desert canyon
full of blind curves and hidden ridges. What I saw
outside my window was the song of poetry.
I grew up a storyteller while dancing with Joe at Samson’s
Saloon. Jeannie taught me sign language, and how to
take shots of tequila. The rules were simple and centered
around mutual respect. Strangers became my neighbors,
my friends, and I spit at billboards that pushed against
the black/white limits, spray-painting them with Jesus


Rejean was a Baptist minister working for the Church Of
Christ. He had an old wind up Victrola in his office and often
listened to Bessie Smith and Ma Rainey while wearing a
furry pink boa and voguing in front of his full-length mirror.
When Ma Rainey comes to town,
Folks from anyplace miles aroun’,
From Cape Girardeau, Poplar Bluff,
Flocks in to hear Ma do her stuff.
Where ya heading now, child? He used to ask. Home, I’d say.
Home? He laughed, dancing around in a circle. Home ain’t
nothing but a place, child.


I sped away one night, staid, with Kid Rock on the radio. Just vanished
until I blurred into an abstract in true dramatic style. I liked it like
that, where everyone in their own little way participated in my ideas,
in my gypsy heart.
I romanticized them with adventuresome passion, holding
on to the fleeting moments with background music and
violins as I listened to the signaling horns of passing cars
on the freeway. I wouldn’t have stopped had I not been
hungry for ambiance and some conversation. It was a welcoming
place when I arrived. Home. But every now and then I daydream.
There’s always something waiting, something pulling me to the unknown.

©2020 Theresa C. Gaynord All rights reserved.


Theresa likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences. She likes to write about matters of an out-of-body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of idyllic, pagan nature, and the occult. Theresa writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be a witch and a poet. (within the horror writing community).

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