the Lord looking down in pity
a novel by gene engelman
At the end of the road,
at bottom of the the bottle,
there begins belief.
He must have been handsome once. He had an old tan, and around his eyes he carried the deep lines of one who has faced the sun. He had a broad forehead, high cheekbones, a puggish nose. Evidently he came from good stock. Thin lips and the hint of a smile complemented a strong chin. All in all, he had a nice, harmonious face.
The trickle of blood issuing from the corner of his mouth simply added character. And his hair—pure white—the fall had mussed it, half combed-down-neat and half sticking-up-crazy, gave him an aura of excitement, as if there were ideas in that head of his, half-crazy, half-profound, that would unlock mysteries. He looked so peaceful stretched out on the gravel by the side of road—I thought him a fallen angel.
But that was then, a long time ago. I was young, and I had read Kerouac. And I had believed him, and this road was my romance. ... read more
