by Tony Schanuel
Highway 82: Going to Greenwood
after The Singing River – Benjamin Morris
First the short leaf pines with their thirsty roots, sucking up groundwater faster than it can be replaced. Gently rolling hills through biscuit gas stations where someone’s grandmother climbed out of bed at 4 am to make a sticky dough on a kitchen countertop, the hot breath of a rusted oven demanding consecration. She cooks thick salted slabs of bacon in ancient black skillet so hot that the volunteer fire department a half mile down the road stands on call every morning, just in case. Next the loblollies with their tall gray, scaly trunks pointing their malnourished branches toward the Delta, west, not far, passing pastures of goats and cows who quietly chew the summer grass waiting for the heat of the day. They know where to lie down. They don’t have to read the Bible to understand salvation. An hour later, the dangerous curves as if something wild is about to happen. There’s suspense all around, in the fat white clouds meeting vultures who circle for dead things in abandoned fields. There are always dead things, things that succumbed to unavoidable forces, things that will never become resurrected, only to return to the soil for a short while. And then the drop, the newly paved highway, mirror black, so shiny you’d swear there was rain. The highway understanding the inevitability of surrender, giving up one’s soul to a city of contrasts: the white cotton fields on the edges of town, a four-star hotel hosting guest chefs from Nashville and New Orleans; the bookstore with the breath of Mecca, the French bakery with real croissants and fresh bread that makes a king sing, the cooking school and the tractors and the city park with no name. The international grocery store perched next to a Dollar General; boiled peanuts for sale in a stainless-steel hot dog cart, and tamales by the dozen under a fire-red tent. The courthouse, the tax assessor’s office, a clinic for those who need medical attention, and a river full of catfish and snakes who crawl up on craggy banks to bask in the sun.
John Dorroh has been writing poetry ever since he could hold a pen (we used to use those, you know). His mother said that his first poem was scribbled on the bathroom wall with bright red lipstick. He may have taught high school science for several decades, and he may have baked bread with Austrian monks and consumed a significant portion of their beer. Six of his poems were nominated for Best of the Net, and several hundred others appeared in over 125 journals such as Kissing Dynamite, River Heron, Feral, and Burningword. Once he received Editor’s Choice Award for a regional journal and was awarded enough money for a sushi dinner for two.
Tony Schanuel is an award-winning photographer and visual artist who has fused a professional background in photography, digital technology, painting and mark making to create fine art that transcends those mediums. His work has been featured in Digital Imaging Magazine, Computer Graphic Magazine, Wild Heart Journal, St. Louis Design Magazine, and is a featured artist in Cyber Palette and Extreme Graphics, two books showcasing digital artists and their work. He has exhibited at the Florence Biennale and his art is held in private and corporate collections including the Fine Arts Museum of Houston permanent photographic collection. http://www.schanuelphoto.com.