a glass of yesterdays

at nineteen

I was smitten with a girl

who loved gin and tonic

she was a preacher’s daughter

in South Carolina

I discovered that 

all of what people say

about preacher’s daughters

is blissfully true

I introduced her to

the bubbly summer fizz

and she introduced me to…

well, let’s just say… 

I learned to mix 

a mean 

gin and tonic

as she lay beside me,

naked and asleep 

on that motel bed,

I took tequila shots 

and reveled in the majesty of 

Austin City Limits

the television and I,

both sloppy drunk 

with the sounds 

of John Hammond

slurring curses through 

a mouth harp,

the tube on his finger 

causing that steel guitar 

to scream bloody murder

and holler for its momma

I sat stupefied 

on the edge 

of a cheap mattress,

covered in awe 

and still coated 

with her

Delta Blues cut 

jagged holes

into my memory, 

with its muddy banks

flesh, sights, screams,

wailing demons

and wobbling fingers

only a cheap television screen

and a cigarette ash,

backlighting 

the carnal event

she, now quiet on the bed

Hammond on the screen,

now brutally howling 

as if in some type of 

infernal pain

a blistering welt 

from the bite of a hell hound,

now sulking somewhere 

in the mosquito-infested 

darkness

“Oh!!! Say, 

my momma don’t allow me…

to stay out 

aaaaall night long!”

I, now 

consumed completely 

by cactus juices 

and cascades 

of flaming guitar notes,

flying out of the 

Devil’s fingertips

I straighten my back 

and draw in closer 

to breathe in her hair

then, toward the television screen 

and I fall sleepily beneath 

the heavy spell 

of it all

now, 

standing in a friend’s kitchen,

I think back

on all of it

I spy a bottle of gin

with a little less than 

a shot left in it

I open the fridge

lo and behold,

a fresh bottle of 

tonic water

I mix the two

and raise 

a toast

to the various potions 

of summer’s forgetfulness…

to the southern gene pool, 

with its extraordinary ability

to produce the most 

exquisite specimens 

of the female form…

to the Delta blues

its vinyl static,

scratched into my soul…

to John Hammond,

masterful and 

merciless…

to the claw marks 

on my back…

to the fear 

of Jesus


Copyright 2020

Magus

(Kevin Trent Boswell)

I am getting back on to my Patreon page at https://www.patreon.com/magus72

I’ll be cross-posting here, what I publicly post, over there. But other, patrons-only content will be available to patrons, there.

Patreon

Magus & The Plastic Infinity

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Conjure Work

Author: Kevin Trent “Magus” Boswell

I coined the term Conjure Coaching to capture what I do, which is to utilize my tool box of skills to help people get what they need, be that tarot, astrology, Strategic Intervention life coaching, NLP, trance, spell work or the kitchen sink.

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