Had conjured audio images of horseshoe stobs clanging behind the neighbor’s trailer, which could apply to the house I live in now or the house I mostly grew up in as a kid. That clang is such a deep and satisfying sound – like an old-time upright bassline to play along to a pentatonic wind chime on our imaginary collective grandma’s back porch. I’ve had a couple sets of horseshoes sitting in a pile in the shed out front (the one painted with a purple Papa Smurf signifying the power of lounge), but I ain’t even set them up yet. I’m not a MAGA nostalgia for white 1950s type, nor a hipster bougie vintage fetishist, but I gotta lot of thoughts about cornhole and the decline of American potential. (Of course cornhole was invented in Ohio – the stank anus of America.) But rather than expound a thousand words about how cornhole shows how an infantilized populace can’t be trusted throwing hard chunks of metal around for leisure, I should probably go outside and set up the horseshoe pits. Even if I ain’t got nobody to throw with, I got four pairs of shoes, spray painted purple and orange and lime green and light blue, and I can just have best of 69 games with myself pitting the colors against each other until I determine which ones got the best feel for me. That way by the time I got folks coming over to play, I’ll be dialed the fuck in, and know if I’m throwing partners with purple shoes, to pick the far pit to come down with, or if it’s lime green, go closer to the house to throw up, even though up and down is always more a metaphysical thing than actual slant to the land. Anyways, I’m thankful my mind is fucked up and imagined horseshoe clangs. I was gonna thank my brain but I know my heart had a hand in it too, and when heart and brain get together, that’s where mind is anyways. Anybody who thinks mind is entirely in the brain is out of their mind.
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