"Post-Prohibition Themes"

                             My timeline this evening stretches vulnerably beneath pale grey skies.The wooded backyard approaching dusk, upon an outdoor residential patio table . A glass plated surface, residing beside the sullen oak. Moist and alive, rural crickets resound reverberation. What swamp flies call their own, a comfortable vegetated greenery. What is seen, still yet unspoken, the silent foliage resumes it's natural token.
                            Wedding ceremonies unfolded in the neighborhood plaza, indoors now, crimson and furnished, aligned with flickering aromas and sofa cushions. The toxic candles that anoint porcelain surfaces. We are relative yet remote to post-prohibition themes, what words rest silent at a centuries turn, spreads from the hearth of the fire, from ashes to burn.
                             Her drunken loins speak volumes throughout atrophied mantelpieces. A social gathering presumes itself jubilantly. Midnight toasts to the bride and groom. Fables of fathers and mothers too soon, photographs of sister and brothers, or empty rooms. The west wing in it's desolate solitude, dreading the morning milk, breakfast and citrus. We've grown distressed from the inviolable country. "Nonsense!", replies the incessant recluse, who migrates throughout embedded hillsides.
                             The truth is, in prior lifestyles we have all seen the crucial reality of things. We've abandoned the passion, and the sordid pain it brings. We have sacrificed pleasure to undesirable necessities. Soiled diapers and daytime mailmen. The feeble canine and the inclusive girl scouts, the Jehovah's witnesses who unbearably rap upon my chamber door at a stale and disgusting hour. The downstairs tenants have heard your intoxicating screams through the creaking floorboards above. The moaning and panging of love, in it's procreational excrement.
                            I have worn early suits, prior to the sticky nighttime fantasies, of sweat dripping profusely from your breasts. Your a.m. kisses, so alcoholic and slow. Your frail and petite shoulders recoil in aftermath. We lie beside each other and tip the bottle backwards, throwing the empty glass onto the stained maroon carpet. You stand up and trot naked, languidly to the bedroom bathroom, I go downstairs and pull another frosty bottle from the suburban refrigerator, I take a ferocious pull and whip it into the blue forgiving recycling bin.  
                          Grandmother was a product of "The Roaring Twenties", her in her Virginia Wolfe nightie. She would go to market with bird infested hats, they were all stuffed with pigeon feathers. This was the birth and initiation of the reckless, mobster, promiscuous genre. Warren Beatty felt out of place living when he did, the prick.