THE DARK CORNER by Malcolm Hoyt
There used to be moonshine distilleries in the dark corner of South Carolina.
Up through the foothills toward Henderson county, Polk county, the serpent water gap, the dark extends north.
The summer is obscurant and green,
each vantage in particular surrounded by rolling waves and walls, terene smell.
Dynamism of mountain ecology!
It is Fall now, we are inside.
The trees are being skeletonized.
"A greek man who ran the restaurant stood on his porch when the developers came, suffice to say he was dead within a week."
I pee into the night three times imagining all sorts of terror in the dark corners of the property, a loping galloper out of the black...
Witches...
"A man proposed to a woman while they were walking up the mountain,
(There were no cars and 176 was not built yet, can you IMAGINE...)
He shot her on the way down, I don't think she said yes; HA!"
Patrol of Cherokee Confederates
Union Recruits
Germans off a botched revolt
On the backroad I am not listening to anyone talking,
Still I am NODDING
I see some disrepaired house,
Lousy with rutting criminals
Grinning through the wind-rattle of blown leaves back at me.
Up through the foothills toward Henderson county, Polk county, the serpent water gap, the dark extends north.
The summer is obscurant and green,
each vantage in particular surrounded by rolling waves and walls, terene smell.
Dynamism of mountain ecology!
It is Fall now, we are inside.
The trees are being skeletonized.
"A greek man who ran the restaurant stood on his porch when the developers came, suffice to say he was dead within a week."
I pee into the night three times imagining all sorts of terror in the dark corners of the property, a loping galloper out of the black...
Witches...
"A man proposed to a woman while they were walking up the mountain,
(There were no cars and 176 was not built yet, can you IMAGINE...)
He shot her on the way down, I don't think she said yes; HA!"
Patrol of Cherokee Confederates
Union Recruits
Germans off a botched revolt
On the backroad I am not listening to anyone talking,
Still I am NODDING
I see some disrepaired house,
Lousy with rutting criminals
Grinning through the wind-rattle of blown leaves back at me.
———
Malcolm Hoyt was born and reared in New York City, where he fell in with a bad crowd. Through a series of events too strange and byzantine to relate expediently, he ended up in California, where he lives in sin with a beautiful woman. He enjoys playing music, acting and writing.
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