Montana

[Deviate]

okay, i'm trying this again 'cause i'm desperate. please don't edit anyone's post and try to hold true to the integrity of the story. post a sentence, a paragraph, whatever.

-st.


Montana.
The name landed heavy, a boulder that pressed upon my chest and expanded, crushing my throat and stuffing my stomach deep down into my knees.

Montana.
This meant borders beyond landlords with security cameras, beyond burly bouncers blocking entrance or boyfriends with bullets, brothers, and babies.

Montana.
This was more. She was far. If she was far she could go further. And if she was further she could be gone.

She was in Montana and she never said goodbye.

She had disappeared on me twice before.

[Indigo]

Montana.
The name landed heavy, a boulder that pressed upon my chest and expanded, crushing my throat and stuffing my stomach deep down into my knees.

Montana.
This meant borders beyond landlords with security cameras, beyond burly bouncers blocking entrance or boyfriends with bullets, brothers, and babies.

Montana.
This was more. She was far. If she was far she could go further. And if she was further she could be gone.

She was in Montana and she never said goodbye.

She had disappeared on me twice before.

The first time...wow, we were only 16. Have the days really passed so quickly? I was so blinded by the thought that I could fix her whole world. Really I just didn't want to admit how beyond repair it really was.

[Deviate]

Montana.
The name landed heavy, a boulder that pressed upon my chest and expanded, crushing my throat and stuffing my stomach deep down into my knees.

Montana.
This meant borders beyond landlords with security cameras, beyond burly bouncers blocking entrance or boyfriends with bullets, brothers, and babies.

Montana.
This was more. She was far. If she was far she could go further. And if she was further she could be gone.

She was in Montana and she never said goodbye.

She had disappeared on me twice before.

The first time...wow, we were only 16. Have the days really passed so quickly? I was so blinded by the thought that I could fix her whole world. Really I just didn't want to admit how beyond repair it really was.

It was a dream that would be too soon interupted.

[masterofNone]

Montana
was her name she said in a smokey voice in a crowded bar full of bikers and white trash waitresses

Montana
was the only answer I could come up with when the detective brought his blackjack down against the small of my neck

Montana
I chanted beneath the hum of the out of balance radials as we tooled along route 66 with $3.46 in our collective pockets

Montana
bubbled and churned and spoke quiet jibberish as the acid changed from euphoric concept to frieghtening reality

[Deviate]

Montana.
The name landed heavy, a boulder that pressed upon my chest and expanded, crushing my throat and stuffing my stomach deep down into my knees.

Montana.
This meant borders beyond landlords with security cameras, beyond burly bouncers blocking entrance or boyfriends with bullets, brothers, and babies.

Montana.
This was more. She was far. If she was far she could go further. And if she was further she could be gone.

She was in Montana and she never said goodbye.

She had disappeared on me twice before.

The first time...wow, we were only 16. Have the days really passed so quickly? I was so blinded by the thought that I could fix her whole world. Really I just didn't want to admit how beyond repair it really was.

It was a dream that would be too soon interupted.

Montana
was her name she said in a smokey voice in a crowded bar full of bikers and white trash waitresses

Montana
was the only answer I could come up with when the detective brought his blackjack down against the small of my neck

Montana
I chanted beneath the hum of the out of balance radials as we tooled along route 66 with $3.46 in our collective pockets

Montana
bubbled and churned and spoke quiet jibberish as the acid changed from euphoric concept to frieghtening reality

The lights passed by at a hypnotic pace as I raced along the ribbon of country highway. I kept one eye on the road and one on the mirrors while my mind traced the delicate harshness of her face, features, no doubt, turned hard by the bitter Montana winter. Her face flickered behind my eyes like a shoddy 16mm reel to reel and her voice echoed in my head.

“I’ll call you,” she giggled as I jumped down the stairs of her twenty-fifth street apartment.
“I’ll call you,” she whispered standing in rhinestone stilettos on the dance club stage.
“I’ll call you,” she whimpered from behind the door in a voice I barely knew.
“I miss you,” she typed in an email that drove me across the country.

[nycwriters]

Montana.
The name landed heavy, a boulder that pressed upon my chest and expanded, crushing my throat and stuffing my stomach deep down into my knees.

Montana.
This meant borders beyond landlords with security cameras, beyond burly bouncers blocking entrance or boyfriends with bullets, brothers, and babies.

Montana.
This was more. She was far. If she was far she could go further. And if she was further she could be gone.

She was in Montana and she never said goodbye.

She had disappeared on me twice before.

The first time...wow, we were only 16. Have the days really passed so quickly? I was so blinded by the thought that I could fix her whole world. Really I just didn't want to admit how beyond repair it really was.

It was a dream that would be too soon interupted.

Montana
was her name she said in a smokey voice in a crowded bar full of bikers and white trash waitresses

Montana
was the only answer I could come up with when the detective brought his blackjack down against the small of my neck

Montana
I chanted beneath the hum of the out of balance radials as we tooled along route 66 with $3.46 in our collective pockets

Montana
bubbled and churned and spoke quiet jibberish as the acid changed from euphoric concept to frieghtening reality

The lights passed by at a hypnotic pace as I raced along the ribbon of country highway. I kept one eye on the road and one on the mirrors while my mind traced the delicate harshness of her face, features, no doubt, turned hard by the bitter Montana winter. Her face flickered behind my eyes like a shoddy 16mm reel to reel and her voice echoed in my head.

“I’ll call you,” she giggled as I jumped down the stairs of her twenty-fifth street apartment.
“I’ll call you,” she whispered standing in rhinestone stilettos on the dance club stage.
“I’ll call you,” she whimpered from behind the door in a voice I barely knew.
“I miss you,” she typed in an email that drove me across the country.

Montana,
Endless roads unravelling mile by mile, all without speed limits, all without limits.

Montana,
Seen in the dark dark night, infrequent light, guiding me home. It was all I could see.

Montana,
Fields and plains and mountains, air, sky, everything we breathe.

Montana,
You knew I couldn't turn away.

[masterofNone]

Montana.
The name landed heavy, a boulder that pressed upon my chest and expanded, crushing my throat and stuffing my stomach deep down into my knees.

Montana.
This meant borders beyond landlords with security cameras, beyond burly bouncers blocking entrance or boyfriends with bullets, brothers, and babies.

Montana.
This was more. She was far. If she was far she could go further. And if she was further she could be gone.

She was in Montana and she never said goodbye.

She had disappeared on me twice before.

The first time...wow, we were only 16. Have the days really passed so quickly? I was so blinded by the thought that I could fix her whole world. Really I just didn't want to admit how beyond repair it really was.

It was a dream that would be too soon interupted.

Montana
was her name she said in a smokey voice in a crowded bar full of bikers and white trash waitresses

Montana
was the only answer I could come up with when the detective brought his blackjack down against the small of my neck

Montana
I chanted beneath the hum of the out of balance radials as we tooled along route 66 with $3.46 in our collective pockets

Montana
bubbled and churned and spoke quiet jibberish as the acid changed from euphoric concept to frieghtening reality

The lights passed by at a hypnotic pace as I raced along the ribbon of country highway. I kept one eye on the road and one on the mirrors while my mind traced the delicate harshness of her face, features, no doubt, turned hard by the bitter Montana winter. Her face flickered behind my eyes like a shoddy 16mm reel to reel and her voice echoed in my head.

“I’ll call you,” she giggled as I jumped down the stairs of her twenty-fifth street apartment.
“I’ll call you,” she whispered standing in rhinestone stilettos on the dance club stage.
“I’ll call you,” she whimpered from behind the door in a voice I barely knew.
“I miss you,” she typed in an email that drove me across the country.

Montana,
Endless roads unravelling mile by mile, all without speed limits, all without limits.

Montana,
Seen in the dark dark night, infrequent light, guiding me home. It was all I could see.

Montana,
Fields and plains and mountains, air, sky, everything we breathe.

Montana,
You knew I couldn't turn away.

The windshield was translucent with salt and spray and dryed antifreeze that had crystalized into jackfrost landscapes. The long and lonesome prairie, in winter, whispered into the sky it's goodnight. Gravel skittered and popped as the old car pulled into the last gasp Texaco. The man with the star leaned back in an ancient white painted chair and watched his breath turn to steam in the cold clear evening air. Words like "fill 'er up" and "dipstick" and "10-by-god-40" swirled in her head as she fished in her pockets for a credit card that might have been left on a night stand in Kansas City.

[nycwriters]

Montana.
The name landed heavy, a boulder that pressed upon my chest and expanded, crushing my throat and stuffing my stomach deep down into my knees.

Montana.
This meant borders beyond landlords with security cameras, beyond burly bouncers blocking entrance or boyfriends with bullets, brothers, and babies.

Montana.
This was more. She was far. If she was far she could go further. And if she was further she could be gone.

She was in Montana and she never said goodbye.

She had disappeared on me twice before.

The first time...wow, we were only 16. Have the days really passed so quickly? I was so blinded by the thought that I could fix her whole world. Really I just didn't want to admit how beyond repair it really was.

It was a dream that would be too soon interupted.

Montana
was her name she said in a smokey voice in a crowded bar full of bikers and white trash waitresses

Montana
was the only answer I could come up with when the detective brought his blackjack down against the small of my neck

Montana
I chanted beneath the hum of the out of balance radials as we tooled along route 66 with $3.46 in our collective pockets

Montana
bubbled and churned and spoke quiet jibberish as the acid changed from euphoric concept to frieghtening reality

The lights passed by at a hypnotic pace as I raced along the ribbon of country highway. I kept one eye on the road and one on the mirrors while my mind traced the delicate harshness of her face, features, no doubt, turned hard by the bitter Montana winter. Her face flickered behind my eyes like a shoddy 16mm reel to reel and her voice echoed in my head.

“I’ll call you,” she giggled as I jumped down the stairs of her twenty-fifth street apartment.
“I’ll call you,” she whispered standing in rhinestone stilettos on the dance club stage.
“I’ll call you,” she whimpered from behind the door in a voice I barely knew.
“I miss you,” she typed in an email that drove me across the country.

Montana,
Endless roads unravelling mile by mile, all without speed limits, all without limits.

Montana,
Seen in the dark dark night, infrequent light, guiding me home. It was all I could see.

Montana,
Fields and plains and mountains, air, sky, everything we breathe.

Montana,
You knew I couldn't turn away.

The windshield was translucent with salt and spray and dryed antifreeze that had crystalized into jackfrost landscapes. The long and lonesome prairie, in winter, whispered into the sky it's goodnight. Gravel skittered and popped as the old car pulled into the last gasp Texaco. The man with the star leaned back in an ancient white painted chair and watched his breath turn to steam in the cold clear evening air. Words like "fill 'er up" and "dipstick" and "10-by-god-40" swirled in her head as she fished in her pockets for a credit card that might have been left on a night stand in Kansas City.

It wasn't enough that life had left me on this limitless highway. Unaware of my surroundings, yet somehow knowing what they were. I saw blue skies so perfect that it was impossible to describe, impossible to relive anywhere else but here. Montana. Somehow the heads of wheat bobbing fairly on that scorching hot summer's day in the slight breeze that rippled across like some diety blowing bubbles. One field bending under its mercy, the next bobbing up, alive.

That was Montana. That was me.

[sybil]

Montana.
The name landed heavy, a boulder that pressed upon my chest and expanded, crushing my throat and stuffing my stomach deep down into my knees.

Montana.
This meant borders beyond landlords with security cameras, beyond burly bouncers blocking entrance or boyfriends with bullets, brothers, and babies.

Montana.
This was more. She was far. If she was far she could go further. And if she was further she could be gone.

She was in Montana and she never said goodbye.

She had disappeared on me twice before.

The first time...wow, we were only 16. Have the days really passed so quickly? I was so blinded by the thought that I could fix her whole world. Really I just didn't want to admit how beyond repair it really was.

It was a dream that would be too soon interupted.

Montana
was her name she said in a smokey voice in a crowded bar full of bikers and white trash waitresses

Montana
was the only answer I could come up with when the detective brought his blackjack down against the small of my neck

Montana
I chanted beneath the hum of the out of balance radials as we tooled along route 66 with $3.46 in our collective pockets

Montana
bubbled and churned and spoke quiet jibberish as the acid changed from euphoric concept to frieghtening reality

The lights passed by at a hypnotic pace as I raced along the ribbon of country highway. I kept one eye on the road and one on the mirrors while my mind traced the delicate harshness of her face, features, no doubt, turned hard by the bitter Montana winter. Her face flickered behind my eyes like a shoddy 16mm reel to reel and her voice echoed in my head.

“I’ll call you,” she giggled as I jumped down the stairs of her twenty-fifth street apartment.
“I’ll call you,” she whispered standing in rhinestone stilettos on the dance club stage.
“I’ll call you,” she whimpered from behind the door in a voice I barely knew.
“I miss you,” she typed in an email that drove me across the country.

Montana,
Endless roads unravelling mile by mile, all without speed limits, all without limits.

Montana,
Seen in the dark dark night, infrequent light, guiding me home. It was all I could see.

Montana,
Fields and plains and mountains, air, sky, everything we breathe.

Montana,
You knew I couldn't turn away.

The windshield was translucent with salt and spray and dryed antifreeze that had crystalized into jackfrost landscapes. The long and lonesome prairie, in winter, whispered into the sky it's goodnight. Gravel skittered and popped as the old car pulled into the last gasp Texaco. The man with the star leaned back in an ancient white painted chair and watched his breath turn to steam in the cold clear evening air. Words like "fill 'er up" and "dipstick" and "10-by-god-40" swirled in her head as she fished in her pockets for a credit card that might have been left on a night stand in Kansas City.

It wasn't enough that life had left me on this limitless highway. Unaware of my surroundings, yet somehow knowing what they were. I saw blue skies so perfect that it was impossible to describe, impossible to relive anywhere else but here. Montana. Somehow the heads of wheat bobbing fairly on that scorching hot summer's day in the slight breeze that rippled across like some diety blowing bubbles. One field bending under its mercy, the next bobbing up, alive.

That was Montana. That was me.

She smiled at me as I came to where she was sitting on the picnic table outside the Dairy Queen. God, she was beautiful with her sun-kissed hair and corduroy cut-offs. I tried to keep the memories of the softness of her stomach, the gentle curve of her hips out of my mind and remember the scars that she'd left me with, the men she'd left me for. I failed. The air was ripe with the smell of late summer and a faint breeze carried her scent. I could hardly breathe.

[masterofNone]

Montana.
The name landed heavy, a boulder that pressed upon my chest and expanded, crushing my throat and stuffing my stomach deep down into my knees.

Montana.
This meant borders beyond landlords with security cameras, beyond burly bouncers blocking entrance or boyfriends with bullets, brothers, and babies.

Montana.
This was more. She was far. If she was far she could go further. And if she was further she could be gone.

She was in Montana and she never said goodbye.

She had disappeared on me twice before.

The first time...wow, we were only 16. Have the days really passed so quickly? I was so blinded by the thought that I could fix her whole world. Really I just didn't want to admit how beyond repair it really was.

It was a dream that would be too soon interupted.

Montana
was her name she said in a smokey voice in a crowded bar full of bikers and white trash waitresses

Montana
was the only answer I could come up with when the detective brought his blackjack down against the small of my neck

Montana
I chanted beneath the hum of the out of balance radials as we tooled along route 66 with $3.46 in our collective pockets

Montana
bubbled and churned and spoke quiet jibberish as the acid changed from euphoric concept to frieghtening reality

The lights passed by at a hypnotic pace as I raced along the ribbon of country highway. I kept one eye on the road and one on the mirrors while my mind traced the delicate harshness of her face, features, no doubt, turned hard by the bitter Montana winter. Her face flickered behind my eyes like a shoddy 16mm reel to reel and her voice echoed in my head.

“I’ll call you,” she giggled as I jumped down the stairs of her twenty-fifth street apartment.
“I’ll call you,” she whispered standing in rhinestone stilettos on the dance club stage.
“I’ll call you,” she whimpered from behind the door in a voice I barely knew.
“I miss you,” she typed in an email that drove me across the country.

Montana,
Endless roads unravelling mile by mile, all without speed limits, all without limits.

Montana,
Seen in the dark dark night, infrequent light, guiding me home. It was all I could see.

Montana,
Fields and plains and mountains, air, sky, everything we breathe.

Montana,
You knew I couldn't turn away.

The windshield was translucent with salt and spray and dryed antifreeze that had crystalized into jackfrost landscapes. The long and lonesome prairie, in winter, whispered into the sky it's goodnight. Gravel skittered and popped as the old car pulled into the last gasp Texaco. The man with the star leaned back in an ancient white painted chair and watched his breath turn to steam in the cold clear evening air. Words like "fill 'er up" and "dipstick" and "10-by-god-40" swirled in her head as she fished in her pockets for a credit card that might have been left on a night stand in Kansas City.

It wasn't enough that life had left me on this limitless highway. Unaware of my surroundings, yet somehow knowing what they were. I saw blue skies so perfect that it was impossible to describe, impossible to relive anywhere else but here. Montana. Somehow the heads of wheat bobbing fairly on that scorching hot summer's day in the slight breeze that rippled across like some diety blowing bubbles. One field bending under its mercy, the next bobbing up, alive.

That was Montana. That was me.

She smiled at me as I came to where she was sitting on the picnic table outside the Dairy Queen. God, she was beautiful with her sun-kissed hair and corduroy cut-offs. I tried to keep the memories of the softness of her stomach, the gentle curve of her hips out of my mind and remember the scars that she'd left me with, the men she'd left me for. I failed. The air was ripe with the smell of late summer and a faint breeze carried her scent. I could hardly breathe.

Montana.
I awoke bathed with that sick and oily sweat, cold sweat that drenched the old and tattered sheets of the 49 Motor Hotel bed.

Montana.
She looked up at me through her bangs, freckled and happy, and drew a long sip of Nehi through her straw. I knew she loved me in that instant of springtime.

Montana.

Montana.

Montana.

[sybil]

Montana.
The name landed heavy, a boulder that pressed upon my chest and expanded, crushing my throat and stuffing my stomach deep down into my knees.

Montana.
This meant borders beyond landlords with security cameras, beyond burly bouncers blocking entrance or boyfriends with bullets, brothers, and babies.

Montana.
This was more. She was far. If she was far she could go further. And if she was further she could be gone.

She was in Montana and she never said goodbye.

She had disappeared on me twice before.

The first time...wow, we were only 16. Have the days really passed so quickly? I was so blinded by the thought that I could fix her whole world. Really I just didn't want to admit how beyond repair it really was.

It was a dream that would be too soon interupted.

Montana
was her name she said in a smokey voice in a crowded bar full of bikers and white trash waitresses

Montana
was the only answer I could come up with when the detective brought his blackjack down against the small of my neck

Montana
I chanted beneath the hum of the out of balance radials as we tooled along route 66 with $3.46 in our collective pockets

Montana
bubbled and churned and spoke quiet jibberish as the acid changed from euphoric concept to frieghtening reality

The lights passed by at a hypnotic pace as I raced along the ribbon of country highway. I kept one eye on the road and one on the mirrors while my mind traced the delicate harshness of her face, features, no doubt, turned hard by the bitter Montana winter. Her face flickered behind my eyes like a shoddy 16mm reel to reel and her voice echoed in my head.

“I’ll call you,” she giggled as I jumped down the stairs of her twenty-fifth street apartment.
“I’ll call you,” she whispered standing in rhinestone stilettos on the dance club stage.
“I’ll call you,” she whimpered from behind the door in a voice I barely knew.
“I miss you,” she typed in an email that drove me across the country.

Montana,
Endless roads unravelling mile by mile, all without speed limits, all without limits.

Montana,
Seen in the dark dark night, infrequent light, guiding me home. It was all I could see.

Montana,
Fields and plains and mountains, air, sky, everything we breathe.

Montana,
You knew I couldn't turn away.

The windshield was translucent with salt and spray and dryed antifreeze that had crystalized into jackfrost landscapes. The long and lonesome prairie, in winter, whispered into the sky it's goodnight. Gravel skittered and popped as the old car pulled into the last gasp Texaco. The man with the star leaned back in an ancient white painted chair and watched his breath turn to steam in the cold clear evening air. Words like "fill 'er up" and "dipstick" and "10-by-god-40" swirled in her head as she fished in her pockets for a credit card that might have been left on a night stand in Kansas City.

It wasn't enough that life had left me on this limitless highway. Unaware of my surroundings, yet somehow knowing what they were. I saw blue skies so perfect that it was impossible to describe, impossible to relive anywhere else but here. Montana. Somehow the heads of wheat bobbing fairly on that scorching hot summer's day in the slight breeze that rippled across like some diety blowing bubbles. One field bending under its mercy, the next bobbing up, alive.

That was Montana. That was me.

She smiled at me as I came to where she was sitting on the picnic table outside the Dairy Queen. God, she was beautiful with her sun-kissed hair and corduroy cut-offs. I tried to keep the memories of the softness of her stomach, the gentle curve of her hips out of my mind and remember the scars that she'd left me with, the men she'd left me for. I failed. The air was ripe with the smell of late summer and a faint breeze carried her scent. I could hardly breathe.

Montana.
I awoke bathed with that sick and oily sweat, cold sweat that drenched the old and tattered sheets of the 49 Motor Hotel bed.

Montana.
She looked up at me through her bangs, freckled and happy, and drew a long sip of Nehi through her straw. I knew she loved me in that instant of springtime.

Montana.

Montana.

Montana.

Crossing the border into Idaho, she told me she hadn't done it, hadn't left, had been with me the whole time. The rain was wetting our ankles through the holes in the floor. I struggled to see the road through the dirt on the windsheild and nodded. Montana was 100 miles away right then.

[Deviate]

Montana.
The name landed heavy, a boulder that pressed upon my chest and expanded, crushing my throat and stuffing my stomach deep down into my knees.

Montana.
This meant borders beyond landlords with security cameras, beyond burly bouncers blocking entrance or boyfriends with bullets, brothers, and babies.

Montana.
This was more. She was far. If she was far she could go further. And if she was further she could be gone.

She was in Montana and she never said goodbye.

She had disappeared on me twice before.

The first time...wow, we were only 16. Have the days really passed so quickly? I was so blinded by the thought that I could fix her whole world. Really I just didn't want to admit how beyond repair it really was.

It was a dream that would be too soon interupted.

Montana
was her name she said in a smokey voice in a crowded bar full of bikers and white trash waitresses

Montana
was the only answer I could come up with when the detective brought his blackjack down against the small of my neck

Montana
I chanted beneath the hum of the out of balance radials as we tooled along route 66 with $3.46 in our collective pockets

Montana
bubbled and churned and spoke quiet jibberish as the acid changed from euphoric concept to frieghtening reality

The lights passed by at a hypnotic pace as I raced along the ribbon of country highway. I kept one eye on the road and one on the mirrors while my mind traced the delicate harshness of her face, features, no doubt, turned hard by the bitter Montana winter. Her face flickered behind my eyes like a shoddy 16mm reel to reel and her voice echoed in my head.

“I’ll call you,” she giggled as I jumped down the stairs of her twenty-fifth street apartment.
“I’ll call you,” she whispered standing in rhinestone stilettos on the dance club stage.
“I’ll call you,” she whimpered from behind the door in a voice I barely knew.
“I miss you,” she typed in an email that drove me across the country.

Montana,
Endless roads unravelling mile by mile, all without speed limits, all without limits.

Montana,
Seen in the dark dark night, infrequent light, guiding me home. It was all I could see.

Montana,
Fields and plains and mountains, air, sky, everything we breathe.

Montana,
You knew I couldn't turn away.

The windshield was translucent with salt and spray and dryed antifreeze that had crystalized into jackfrost landscapes. The long and lonesome prairie, in winter, whispered into the sky it's goodnight. Gravel skittered and popped as the old car pulled into the last gasp Texaco. The man with the star leaned back in an ancient white painted chair and watched his breath turn to steam in the cold clear evening air. Words like "fill 'er up" and "dipstick" and "10-by-god-40" swirled in her head as she fished in her pockets for a credit card that might have been left on a night stand in Kansas City.

It wasn't enough that life had left me on this limitless highway. Unaware of my surroundings, yet somehow knowing what they were. I saw blue skies so perfect that it was impossible to describe, impossible to relive anywhere else but here. Montana. Somehow the heads of wheat bobbing fairly on that scorching hot summer's day in the slight breeze that rippled across like some diety blowing bubbles. One field bending under its mercy, the next bobbing up, alive.

That was Montana. That was me.

She smiled at me as I came to where she was sitting on the picnic table outside the Dairy Queen. God, she was beautiful with her sun-kissed hair and corduroy cut-offs. I tried to keep the memories of the softness of her stomach, the gentle curve of her hips out of my mind and remember the scars that she'd left me with, the men she'd left me for. I failed. The air was ripe with the smell of late summer and a faint breeze carried her scent. I could hardly breathe.

Montana.
I awoke bathed with that sick and oily sweat, cold sweat that drenched the old and tattered sheets of the 49 Motor Hotel bed.

Montana.
She looked up at me through her bangs, freckled and happy, and drew a long sip of Nehi through her straw. I knew she loved me in that instant of springtime.

Montana.

Montana.

Montana.

Crossing the border into Idaho, she told me she hadn't done it, hadn't left, had been with me the whole time. The rain was wetting our ankles through the holes in the floor. I struggled to see the road through the dirt on the windsheild and nodded. Montana was 100 miles away right then.

Montana
the name that drove me here

Montana
the voice that cryed in the night

Montana
the skin that bled onto bathroom floors
from delicate crosshatch patterns.

I pulled over and removed myself from the car, grabbed a handful of dingy snow and tried to pull the filthy film that clung to my windows. Handful after handful I dug into the snow until my hand was large and numb.

I tried to grasp the situation, but my heart was weak.

100 miles. My search would be over.
100 miles into the mountains, into
Montana
and she would be
happy to see me
and she would be
happy...

[masterofNone]

Montana.
The name landed heavy, a boulder that pressed upon my chest and expanded, crushing my throat and stuffing my stomach deep down into my knees.

Montana.
This meant borders beyond landlords with security cameras, beyond burly bouncers blocking entrance or boyfriends with bullets, brothers, and babies.

Montana.
This was more. She was far. If she was far she could go further. And if she was further she could be gone.

She was in Montana and she never said goodbye.

She had disappeared on me twice before.

The first time...wow, we were only 16. Have the days really passed so quickly? I was so blinded by the thought that I could fix her whole world. Really I just didn't want to admit how beyond repair it really was.

It was a dream that would be too soon interupted.

Montana
was her name she said in a smokey voice in a crowded bar full of bikers and white trash waitresses

Montana
was the only answer I could come up with when the detective brought his blackjack down against the small of my neck

Montana
I chanted beneath the hum of the out of balance radials as we tooled along route 66 with $3.46 in our collective pockets

Montana
bubbled and churned and spoke quiet jibberish as the acid changed from euphoric concept to frieghtening reality

The lights passed by at a hypnotic pace as I raced along the ribbon of country highway. I kept one eye on the road and one on the mirrors while my mind traced the delicate harshness of her face, features, no doubt, turned hard by the bitter Montana winter. Her face flickered behind my eyes like a shoddy 16mm reel to reel and her voice echoed in my head.

?I?ll call you,? she giggled as I jumped down the stairs of her twenty-fifth street apartment.
?I?ll call you,? she whispered standing in rhinestone stilettos on the dance club stage.
?I?ll call you,? she whimpered from behind the door in a voice I barely knew.
?I miss you,? she typed in an email that drove me across the country.

Montana,
Endless roads unravelling mile by mile, all without speed limits, all without limits.

Montana,
Seen in the dark dark night, infrequent light, guiding me home. It was all I could see.

Montana,
Fields and plains and mountains, air, sky, everything we breathe.

Montana,
You knew I couldn't turn away.

The windshield was translucent with salt and spray and dryed antifreeze that had crystalized into jackfrost landscapes. The long and lonesome prairie, in winter, whispered into the sky it's goodnight. Gravel skittered and popped as the old car pulled into the last gasp Texaco. The man with the star leaned back in an ancient white painted chair and watched his breath turn to steam in the cold clear evening air. Words like "fill 'er up" and "dipstick" and "10-by-god-40" swirled in her head as she fished in her pockets for a credit card that might have been left on a night stand in Kansas City.

It wasn't enough that life had left me on this limitless highway. Unaware of my surroundings, yet somehow knowing what they were. I saw blue skies so perfect that it was impossible to describe, impossible to relive anywhere else but here. Montana. Somehow the heads of wheat bobbing fairly on that scorching hot summer's day in the slight breeze that rippled across like some diety blowing bubbles. One field bending under its mercy, the next bobbing up, alive.

That was Montana. That was me.

She smiled at me as I came to where she was sitting on the picnic table outside the Dairy Queen. God, she was beautiful with her sun-kissed hair and corduroy cut-offs. I tried to keep the memories of the softness of her stomach, the gentle curve of her hips out of my mind and remember the scars that she'd left me with, the men she'd left me for. I failed. The air was ripe with the smell of late summer and a faint breeze carried her scent. I could hardly breathe.

Montana.
I awoke bathed with that sick and oily sweat, cold sweat that drenched the old and tattered sheets of the 49 Motor Hotel bed.

Montana.
She looked up at me through her bangs, freckled and happy, and drew a long sip of Nehi through her straw. I knew she loved me in that instant of springtime.

Montana.

Montana.

Montana.

Crossing the border into Idaho, she told me she hadn't done it, hadn't left, had been with me the whole time. The rain was wetting our ankles through the holes in the floor. I struggled to see the road through the dirt on the windsheild and nodded. Montana was 100 miles away right then.

Montana
the name that drove me here

Montana
the voice that cryed in the night

Montana
the skin that bled onto bathroom floors
from delicate crosshatch patterns.

I pulled over and removed myself from the car, grabbed a handful of dingy snow and tried to pull the filthy film that clung to my windows. Handful after handful I dug into the snow until my hand was large and numb.

I tried to grasp the situation, but my heart was weak.

100 miles. My search would be over.
100 miles into the mountains, into
Montana
and she would be
happy to see me
and she would be
happy...

Lighting a cigarette that was bent and wrinkled yet unbroken by the evening spent in the front pocket of my jeans, I sent a prayer into the night with my first exhale of blue smoke. "Maybeline, why can't you be true?" An unreal eighteen wheeler, riding the backs to avoid the weigh stations, skittered ground glass and asphault into a little dance between my boots and I smiled at the need to be moving. Jumped in and spun the radio dial, letting God choose the station... KZJO... KLNT... KPRE.

"Maybeline, why can't you be true?"

[Deviate]

Montana.
The name landed heavy, a boulder that pressed upon my chest and expanded, crushing my throat and stuffing my stomach deep down into my knees.

Montana.
This meant borders beyond landlords with security cameras, beyond burly bouncers blocking entrance or boyfriends with bullets, brothers, and babies.

Montana.
This was more. She was far. If she was far she could go further. And if she was further she could be gone.

She was in Montana and she never said goodbye.

She had disappeared on me twice before.

The first time...wow, we were only 16. Have the days really passed so quickly? I was so blinded by the thought that I could fix her whole world. Really I just didn't want to admit how beyond repair it really was.

It was a dream that would be too soon interupted.

Montana
was her name she said in a smokey voice in a crowded bar full of bikers and white trash waitresses

Montana
was the only answer I could come up with when the detective brought his blackjack down against the small of my neck

Montana
I chanted beneath the hum of the out of balance radials as we tooled along route 66 with $3.46 in our collective pockets

Montana
bubbled and churned and spoke quiet jibberish as the acid changed from euphoric concept to frieghtening reality

The lights passed by at a hypnotic pace as I raced along the ribbon of country highway. I kept one eye on the road and one on the mirrors while my mind traced the delicate harshness of her face, features, no doubt, turned hard by the bitter Montana winter. Her face flickered behind my eyes like a shoddy 16mm reel to reel and her voice echoed in my head.

?I?ll call you,? she giggled as I jumped down the stairs of her twenty-fifth street apartment.
?I?ll call you,? she whispered standing in rhinestone stilettos on the dance club stage.
?I?ll call you,? she whimpered from behind the door in a voice I barely knew.
?I miss you,? she typed in an email that drove me across the country.

Montana,
Endless roads unravelling mile by mile, all without speed limits, all without limits.

Montana,
Seen in the dark dark night, infrequent light, guiding me home. It was all I could see.

Montana,
Fields and plains and mountains, air, sky, everything we breathe.

Montana,
You knew I couldn't turn away.

The windshield was translucent with salt and spray and dryed antifreeze that had crystalized into jackfrost landscapes. The long and lonesome prairie, in winter, whispered into the sky it's goodnight. Gravel skittered and popped as the old car pulled into the last gasp Texaco. The man with the star leaned back in an ancient white painted chair and watched his breath turn to steam in the cold clear evening air. Words like "fill 'er up" and "dipstick" and "10-by-god-40" swirled in her head as she fished in her pockets for a credit card that might have been left on a night stand in Kansas City.

It wasn't enough that life had left me on this limitless highway. Unaware of my surroundings, yet somehow knowing what they were. I saw blue skies so perfect that it was impossible to describe, impossible to relive anywhere else but here. Montana. Somehow the heads of wheat bobbing fairly on that scorching hot summer's day in the slight breeze that rippled across like some diety blowing bubbles. One field bending under its mercy, the next bobbing up, alive.

That was Montana. That was me.

She smiled at me as I came to where she was sitting on the picnic table outside the Dairy Queen. God, she was beautiful with her sun-kissed hair and corduroy cut-offs. I tried to keep the memories of the softness of her stomach, the gentle curve of her hips out of my mind and remember the scars that she'd left me with, the men she'd left me for. I failed. The air was ripe with the smell of late summer and a faint breeze carried her scent. I could hardly breathe.

Montana.
I awoke bathed with that sick and oily sweat, cold sweat that drenched the old and tattered sheets of the 49 Motor Hotel bed.

Montana.
She looked up at me through her bangs, freckled and happy, and drew a long sip of Nehi through her straw. I knew she loved me in that instant of springtime.

Montana.

Montana.

Montana.

Crossing the border into Idaho, she told me she hadn't done it, hadn't left, had been with me the whole time. The rain was wetting our ankles through the holes in the floor. I struggled to see the road through the dirt on the windsheild and nodded. Montana was 100 miles away right then.

Montana
the name that drove me here

Montana
the voice that cryed in the night

Montana
the skin that bled onto bathroom floors
from delicate crosshatch patterns.

I pulled over and removed myself from the car, grabbed a handful of dingy snow and tried to pull the filthy film that clung to my windows. Handful after handful I dug into the snow until my hand was large and numb.

I tried to grasp the situation, but my heart was weak.

100 miles. My search would be over.
100 miles into the mountains, into
Montana
and she would be
happy to see me
and she would be
happy...

Lighting a cigarette that was bent and wrinkled yet unbroken by the evening spent in the front pocket of my jeans, I sent a prayer into the night with my first exhale of blue smoke. "Maybeline, why can't you be true?" An unreal eighteen wheeler, riding the backs to avoid the weigh stations, skittered ground glass and asphault into a little dance between my boots and I smiled at the need to be moving. Jumped in and spun the radio dial, letting God choose the station... KZJO... KLNT... KPRE.

"Maybeline, why can't you be true?"

The air danced with dust as I sang along the evening highway and followed me as I slowed, turning the broken receipt over in my hand to reveal its secret scratched on the back, then turned where the paper indicated. I clicked the dial off and moved silently through the night.

I pressed on to Highland road that curved higher and higher into the hills, melting into the midnight mountains and was led to a gas station, brightest star in the sky, Bethlehem.

I parked under the worn canopy and was bathed in light. Still clutching the worn receipt I climbed out of the car and threw the nozzle into the gas tank. As the pump chugged I wandered away from the car and around the building.

Sitting askew behind the Phillips 66 was a shack of a trailer. I thought I should wait until morning, but had come so far and my thirst overpowered my manners.

Nozzle still in tank, I walked to the door which hung by single rusted screw in the top hinge. Carefully I swung the door, only to have it fall with a loud crash to my left side. Having no chance of maintaining silence, I knocked loudly on the door.

Nothing.

I tried again.

Still nothing.

I went around the building and knocked at its only window that was still intact and still, no reply. That's when I heard the unmistakable voice of boots on gravel. I spun around ready to be quenched, to reach the end of my journey.

The gas station attendant stood before me. The wind picked up and snatched the receipt clean from my hand. I did not attempt to retrieve it.

I paid the man and we talked breifly about the couple that lived in the trailer behind the station all up to a week ago.

About them packing everything up into garbage sacks.
About heading South.
About a growing belly and a baby on its way.

I left without thanking the attendant, neglecting to buy another pack of smokes, and sped onto the mountain road, this time nose pointed downward. I stopped the car in the middle of the street and got out.

Montana
whispered into the night sky

Montana
danced with the dust that chased my tail

Montana
dropped a tear lit by a the light of a gas station sign

Montana
now New Orleans
soon Tampa

and me
in the mountains
in Montana.

[sybil]

Montana.
The name landed heavy, a boulder that pressed upon my chest and expanded, crushing my throat and stuffing my stomach deep down into my knees.

Montana.
This meant borders beyond landlords with security cameras, beyond burly bouncers blocking entrance or boyfriends with bullets, brothers, and babies.

Montana.
This was more. She was far. If she was far she could go further. And if she was further she could be gone.

She was in Montana and she never said goodbye.

She had disappeared on me twice before.

The first time...wow, we were only 16. Have the days really passed so quickly? I was so blinded by the thought that I could fix her whole world. Really I just didn't want to admit how beyond repair it really was.

It was a dream that would be too soon interupted.

Montana
was her name she said in a smokey voice in a crowded bar full of bikers and white trash waitresses

Montana
was the only answer I could come up with when the detective brought his blackjack down against the small of my neck

Montana
I chanted beneath the hum of the out of balance radials as we tooled along route 66 with $3.46 in our collective pockets

Montana
bubbled and churned and spoke quiet jibberish as the acid changed from euphoric concept to frieghtening reality

The lights passed by at a hypnotic pace as I raced along the ribbon of country highway. I kept one eye on the road and one on the mirrors while my mind traced the delicate harshness of her face, features, no doubt, turned hard by the bitter Montana winter. Her face flickered behind my eyes like a shoddy 16mm reel to reel and her voice echoed in my head.

?I?ll call you,? she giggled as I jumped down the stairs of her twenty-fifth street apartment.
?I?ll call you,? she whispered standing in rhinestone stilettos on the dance club stage.
?I?ll call you,? she whimpered from behind the door in a voice I barely knew.
?I miss you,? she typed in an email that drove me across the country.

Montana,
Endless roads unravelling mile by mile, all without speed limits, all without limits.

Montana,
Seen in the dark dark night, infrequent light, guiding me home. It was all I could see.

Montana,
Fields and plains and mountains, air, sky, everything we breathe.

Montana,
You knew I couldn't turn away.

The windshield was translucent with salt and spray and dryed antifreeze that had crystalized into jackfrost landscapes. The long and lonesome prairie, in winter, whispered into the sky it's goodnight. Gravel skittered and popped as the old car pulled into the last gasp Texaco. The man with the star leaned back in an ancient white painted chair and watched his breath turn to steam in the cold clear evening air. Words like "fill 'er up" and "dipstick" and "10-by-god-40" swirled in her head as she fished in her pockets for a credit card that might have been left on a night stand in Kansas City.

It wasn't enough that life had left me on this limitless highway. Unaware of my surroundings, yet somehow knowing what they were. I saw blue skies so perfect that it was impossible to describe, impossible to relive anywhere else but here. Montana. Somehow the heads of wheat bobbing fairly on that scorching hot summer's day in the slight breeze that rippled across like some diety blowing bubbles. One field bending under its mercy, the next bobbing up, alive.

That was Montana. That was me.

She smiled at me as I came to where she was sitting on the picnic table outside the Dairy Queen. God, she was beautiful with her sun-kissed hair and corduroy cut-offs. I tried to keep the memories of the softness of her stomach, the gentle curve of her hips out of my mind and remember the scars that she'd left me with, the men she'd left me for. I failed. The air was ripe with the smell of late summer and a faint breeze carried her scent. I could hardly breathe.

Montana.
I awoke bathed with that sick and oily sweat, cold sweat that drenched the old and tattered sheets of the 49 Motor Hotel bed.

Montana.
She looked up at me through her bangs, freckled and happy, and drew a long sip of Nehi through her straw. I knew she loved me in that instant of springtime.

Montana.

Montana.

Montana.

Crossing the border into Idaho, she told me she hadn't done it, hadn't left, had been with me the whole time. The rain was wetting our ankles through the holes in the floor. I struggled to see the road through the dirt on the windsheild and nodded. Montana was 100 miles away right then.

Montana
the name that drove me here

Montana
the voice that cryed in the night

Montana
the skin that bled onto bathroom floors
from delicate crosshatch patterns.

I pulled over and removed myself from the car, grabbed a handful of dingy snow and tried to pull the filthy film that clung to my windows. Handful after handful I dug into the snow until my hand was large and numb.

I tried to grasp the situation, but my heart was weak.

100 miles. My search would be over.
100 miles into the mountains, into
Montana
and she would be
happy to see me
and she would be
happy...

Lighting a cigarette that was bent and wrinkled yet unbroken by the evening spent in the front pocket of my jeans, I sent a prayer into the night with my first exhale of blue smoke. "Maybeline, why can't you be true?" An unreal eighteen wheeler, riding the backs to avoid the weigh stations, skittered ground glass and asphault into a little dance between my boots and I smiled at the need to be moving. Jumped in and spun the radio dial, letting God choose the station... KZJO... KLNT... KPRE.

"Maybeline, why can't you be true?"

The air danced with dust as I sang along the evening highway and followed me as I slowed, turning the broken receipt over in my hand to reveal its secret scratched on the back, then turned where the paper indicated. I clicked the dial off and moved silently through the night.

I pressed on to Highland road that curved higher and higher into the hills, melting into the midnight mountains and was led to a gas station, brightest star in the sky, Bethlehem.

I parked under the worn canopy and was bathed in light. Still clutching the worn receipt I climbed out of the car and threw the nozzle into the gas tank. As the pump chugged I wandered away from the car and around the building.

Sitting askew behind the Phillips 66 was a shack of a trailer. I thought I should wait until morning, but had come so far and my thirst overpowered my manners.

Nozzle still in tank, I walked to the door which hung by single rusted screw in the top hinge. Carefully I swung the door, only to have it fall with a loud crash to my left side. Having no chance of maintaining silence, I knocked loudly on the door.

Nothing.

I tried again.

Still nothing.

I went around the building and knocked at its only window that was still intact and still, no reply. That's when I heard the unmistakable voice of boots on gravel. I spun around ready to be quenched, to reach the end of my journey.

The gas station attendant stood before me. The wind picked up and snatched the receipt clean from my hand. I did not attempt to retrieve it.

I paid the man and we talked breifly about the couple that lived in the trailer behind the station all up to a week ago.

About them packing everything up into garbage sacks.
About heading South.
About a growing belly and a baby on its way.

I left without thanking the attendant, neglecting to buy another pack of smokes, and sped onto the mountain road, this time nose pointed downward. I stopped the car in the middle of the street and got out.

Montana
whispered into the night sky

Montana
danced with the dust that chased my tail

Montana
dropped a tear lit by a the light of a gas station sign

Montana
now New Orleans
soon Tampa

and me
in the mountains
in Montana.

Laying awake in the back seat of my car, I heard the wind trying to break through the plastic sheeting that served at my right rear window. I had found a place to park for the night, next to RVs and pick-up trucks. Sleep had come easy. Not a single memory of a dream pierced my early morning consciousness.