Sobieski BBQ meatballs. Good country people. . .
Feelin like the misfit travelin with Hiram and meeting Bailey Boy and Gramma (worried about a smuggled cat in another story) and makin proclamations of faith and misgiving.

Not hard to find. Fairly easy to leave. All that and the miracle of life wrapped in a few heat-and-eat buffet tins. Don't whisper about the indian girl from the reservation. She can hear you. Nobody else could but me. I heard it all--each careful word--and then the feeling that I left you all behind. Misfit?

Who made the weaving-through-traffic slanders of a teenager? Good kids. Friendly. Well-read. Thoughtful conversationalists, they were. HEAVY books kept from them--but they read them all and understood. Were eager to talk about them and had insight to other places and times. Out of body adolescents. Their adults could use some training.

Don't much need good churches: but, they seem to think that the churches need me. Maybe it is the smell of money. It is only some lightly applied cologne--for the women who kisses my neck. For her there is faith, but for them there is greed--only greed and money lust. Cutting hair of the dead and dieing and foster care. Seventeen years and the sensitivity of a calloused and gloved hand with the young. Who has the lever to move her--maybe all of them--from their carefully conceived palce in the country? I have no levers. Just bombs. Bombs.

It still is well. Just not seeming.