Blasting The Blues, Cruising On A Georgia Summer Day

Summer in Georgia means one thing to me,

heat lightning. They appear in beards

of mighty sky giants; little, wriggling electric serpents.

They blink and flick at me as I cruise across

small town highways, radiation from the asphalt

constricts my car. The stereo plays Blues from

artists that are me, Heartless Bastards.

The guitar slides along with the rhythm

of the rotary engine. I cast lazy glares

up at the white streaks that clash against

grey patches on an azure curtain.

Somewhere, a middle-aged woman

with a resonant voice is singing “Landslides”

alongside her trusty cover band in a

semi-crowed sports bar, on a street in a

small town’s Main Street. Cobblestone

sidewalks, old-fashioned brick storefronts.

Cute Ma and Pa store names. Her voice

beams with passion that travels past

the modest city limits into

the Great Cobalt Sheets above.

The clashing molecules dance with

her vigorous vocals, trying to remember

the first time they sang along with this song,

in a periwinkle blue 1977 Chevy Impala,

riding under a Georgia heat lightning storm.