Complementing Compliments of a Previous Life (Doot)

         The farmer looked up a me and smiled in a quite strange way: he was missing teeth, the left incisor and a couple of molars, which gave his looks the semblance of a jack o' lantern with a straw hat shoved on top of a skinny body clad in denim overalls. In his left hand, he held a pitchfork like in the Grant Wood painting, and I couldn't help but think of Deliverance, although he didn't have a banjo; in his right hand, he had an unfiltered cigarette with a long ash teetering on the fate of all things and gravity.

"The roads are jam-packed, this morning, and it looks like if you want to get anywhere, you better not take the Interstate . . . "

         On his shoulder, a black bird—a crow or raven, an ornithologist I am not—perched and opened and closed its beak every once in awhile like it was yawning in boredom; his feathers were a bit ragged, I could only guess it fought with other birds or cats or something (like I said, not an ornithologist). Its black beads for eyes darted around and rested on my own eyes a few times, and it sent a chill down my spine. Wait, what spine?

" . . . I wanted freedom,
bound and restricted,
I tried to give you up,
but I'm addicted . . . "

         A pig sat on its haunches at the farmer's side, snorting noisily—honestly, I don't recall ever seeing a pig quite sit like that, like a dog would. It was slathered in mud, as the sun burnt rings in the lavender sky (no ornithologist, but it's kind of common knowledge that pigs waller in mud to keep cool, I think). Lavender? In the background, a low farmhouse sagged in old age, although it had a fresh white coat of paint and a new-looking porch; a grain silo was behind it, along with a tiny, whimsical (in my opinion) windmill. American Gothic, indeed.

" . . . Did you hear what the President said this morning? Can you believe the abuse he gives the English language, Frank?
—Sure can't, Bob. Surely can not.
—I think he really ought to strategerise his speechs more, eh? Eh?
—Sure, Bob . . . "

         Why am I dreaming about a farm? The farmer didn't have a wife like in the painting, I noticed. He seemed happy enough, however. The crow—raven—black bird—cawed and stared intently at me. Because you're on the farm. Because you need to wake up. Because you've been dreaming this whole time, and it's time you came back to the farm. What?

"Jesus Christ, you're late! Wake up! Wake! Up!"