"Does it sound like the old pine box song?" 

     "Do I really sound like Ronald Reagan sometimes?"  

     "Well, I've not heard your speeches," she yawned, "And so far from home I can't really do a comparison analysis of the two songs."  Bare feet.  Some kind of stretchy soft glitter pants.  "And my shirt, right?!  You gave that one too me, right?!" She asked as the other she went into a camper and rooted around for coffee.  The camper's she had tried to assure us that it'll all be all right. 

     Late night conversation until darkest before sunrise had us talking about that couple we'd seen almost strangle each other a few times.  "Some people love that way." 

     The fire crackled and a chunk of hardwood split.  "Fighting the whole time?!  That'd wear me out." 

     "They swear they love each other and, time and again, they do get through their issues.  Drinking never helps but they know that."  

     "I could write a song about that.  God knows I've got no love life to sing about." 

     "What day is the audition?"  

     "Thursday." 

     "This is Sunday!" 

     "You too better get busy."  The camper she went to bed.  "Maybe I shouldn't do it." 

     "That's your problem?" 

     A long stare into the campfire.  "I don't really have a problem." 

     "But you said you ain't got no music." 

     "I didn't say that.  I's just waitin' to play 'em for you first." 

     "Well, it's getting later and later.  Don't you think you might should play me at least one?" 

     "I'll think about it."  In a little while she got up and got her guitar and a travel bag, "Set this over there," she said as she took a notebook out.  "Whacha got in it?" 

     "Go ahead and look." So I did.  A small pile of dress shoes and silky soft dresses and shirts and a pair of pants.  "You need panty hose?" 

     "Maybe so I can strangle myself."  She tuned and strummed the guitar.  The sounds of the instrument just up close and outside sounded at once casual and amplified by the fire.  "I'm thinking in my head what I should start with," she propped a leg on the camp chair and the guitar on it.  "You already memorized all your songs?" 

     "Mostly," she said as she took an eye glass case with picks and poker chips out of a pocket and decided which one to use. 

    "None of them are political." 

    "The other one's might be." 

     She tuned to her voice until she said, "Close enough," and like a person at a lake, just dove in and started singing.

     It was Tuesday afternoon when Pops quietly stood near a picnic table with something behind his back.  "What is it?" I asked.  He showed a mangled guitar and said, "I can't fix this."  He left it on top of the table.

     "Okay, this one's called something like, 'Sorry I Disturb You,' the singer then stood up and acapella'd.  Someone pointed to the picnic table where people had left offerings.  Unbroken guitars, money for bus fares, bottles of soda and water.  There was also garden vegetables since a truck driving friend had told everyone, There's nothing fresh on the highway. 

     "Nope," Somebody agreed.  "The road goes on forever and the party never ends." 

     "Forever ever?" A lovestruck young man asked his woman.  "Yes! I will.  Love you forever ever."  He tapped the fat envelope of money to get them "all the way to Chicago." 

    "I'll be up there to hear the poets slam.  Maybe I'll see you." 

     "I doubt it.  Big place," the man said. 

     "I'm going up with a few poets.  You might know some of them!" 

     "Not the point."  He twirled the woman's hair until she brushed his hand away.  Then took it and kissed it.  "What's the point?  I mean, what do you mean?" 

     "I mean we gonnah be busy with music stuff." 

     "Yes we are," the woman ducked out of the conversation she was having and affirmed.

     The sound was down but the footages being spliced together into a montage spoke volumes.  Acting silly, the artist deemed it.  People under the pressures of a rapidly corporatizing world and having feelings in regards "the end of the world".  The lever controlling speed sped up some parts of the carry on while I'm gone.  "We had carried on all right." The artist thought through an impact zone of happening that had transpired quickly compared to peoples' recoveries and re-finding God.  "I guess we should have known." 

     "Did anyone tell us or did it just add up into war?" 

     "Probably a little bit of both," a writer home from Overseas said.  The little closet of a room fell silent.  "We certainly knew not friendly when they blew up our barracks in Beirut." 

     "That's what I don't understand," a young man sighed.  "Why didn't we just blow them the fuck away before they sunk our ship?" 

     "It's a little more complicated than that." 

     "Here!  Here it was."  The footage answering a question about costumes.  One, more of a historical item than just any costume.  The debate was and wasn't about whether or not the item was stolen.  "We wouldn't have disappeared into that place if there wasn't rioting in the streets." The artist eye-balled a pottery sculptor from Europe.  "Vhat else?  Vee need homes."  

     "It's not going to work."  The footages were taken on like five different equipments.  "Besides, I can't just make a movie, just like that." The artist pulled the satiny-sounding long coat up over here mussed up dress.  "Put all of it in this bag."  She pulled a cloth grocery sack from a pocket.  "I may know someone who can help."