O Richard Buckner, vast big-hand explorer of men’s souls, troubadour of the half-sentence, vague malaise-meister of bawling baritone balladry, traveling growl of a flannel clad man, palms the size of eagle wings and fingers thick as redwoods. Where is your Laundromat romance, transient blogger of drive-thru travails and motel misdeeds? Who folds your socks and creases your pant legs, solitary peddler of desperation? The slim chance second chance? Pencil sketches of our American truths, wrapped in greasy sandwich paper and munched by lake with a bottle of wine? The Impasse of communication in crisis, the Dents and Shells of faded valentine hearts, the Meadow of iridescent TV dinners. Hard scoop ice cream stacked too tall, inevitably toppling to the sticky tile floor.
All hail the tired tickler of those steel-stringed serenades. No road like open road: