by Richard Rawlins
The tyres on the
vehicle bumpity bumped their way upon the grooved in roadway of the state
funded circumvented enclosures of political prosperity and working class
despise. Here upon this hilltop in a rejuvenated Paramin of almost Ramon
Navarroesque yesteryear except for the hidden trap guns of ganja farmers,
agricultural wooden toolsheds and crocus bag scarecrows, I saw her.