Me with me "yee-haws" and they with their "cay-jun".

The only thing that really matters is that there is the finite. No. Wait. I can't grasp that. Too abstract.

The only thing that really matters is to keep moving, and let some sort of rhythm take place as the type, type, type goes. Something stirs inside me, a combination of key strokes and the sound of the words in my head, and a summoning of the dead...(no, not the dead, that was for the rhyme).

No, but it is something in the combination of rhythm and meaning of words, how one pushes the other along that can generate something new. Not something odd for the sake of odd, but careful foot paths along the river bank while walking in reverse can give direction in which way to turn, if at all needed, and in this one can then choose to drown or make it back to the bungalow....

....there were three of us staying at the family owned bungalow. It had been my uncle's, back when I called him Munca', back thirty years he signed the papers, for I was almost two. You do the math.

It was charming, this cabin, run down like our friendship; me, Leroy, and Labeouf. In cajun country, children grow together like kettle a' corn, both sweet and savory and tough. Not too popular in the rest of America, indicative with its pop culture matinees and movie theaters popping corn with its extra salt and butter smothered.

We were of a different cloth. A simple folk growing up, tossing the football, playing our fiddle and accordion and all said with a lovely dialect and pronunciation I lost when moving west.

It was part of the problem at hand. They still called me names behind my back, "The Wild One" "Kentucky Grass" "Shoot 'Em Up." There had been opportunities post high school in Lexington for all of us to pursue our goals in applied science with metallurgy. As a child, even spending summers in this very same wood framed house by the river, I dreamt of American industry, a return to glory of manufacturing solid products. The other boys had drum sticks and board games. I pretended to solder with my hair brush on the benches under the spruce trees.

I met Leroy and Labeouf young, but we never knew our shared love till we were older, by chance coming upon a Fernand Léger's "The Discs in the City" in a downtown red-light shop, snuck off from our field trip class to the dentist.

All through shop class and part time work at Thibodeaux's Body Shop, we dreamed of what we knew. Stories about going west, of a clay colored blue, like our own river's silt deposit but with a possible strength to strip out the alloy.

And when I got to Poly-tech in Lexington, I didn't turn back. I quickly lost my Cajun accent for the urban inflections. I brought my fiddle from my shoulder to rest under my chin. I met a girl who shared the love of metallurgy. We seduced each other with existential bent poems themed on the morning moments;

"Like liquid alloy in the morning, molten, unable to take a shape, the coffee whistles but still can't cool me the summer sun is no match until I'm poured into my vessel, a substance, a soul that takes me aches and all, as I withdraw and into being shapeless shape shifter knows no place to linger but I would gladly still in this blue clay for you simple soil with no alloy yet, yet you'd allow me to be as such as we twirl together."

And so we had problems, going back to the present, me and my two friends in the bungalow, the run-down cabin of my youth. But we worked in out. Me with me "yee-haws" and they with their "cay-jun".