We are leaving, simply leaving. In a car. For a long time.
I want to go for a long ride with a stranger. I’ll pay for the gas, I got the whip. The stranger pays for his or her own everything else. We drive hundreds of miles to remote places we’ve never been before. This is not about sex, it’s not even about getting along or reaching any particular destination. It’s about being. It’s about having no history.
There are types of strangers I’d love to travel with, maybe because their description seems superficially so unlike me:
1. A black man between the ages of 40 and 55.
2. A Hispanic girl between the ages of 15-20.
3. A white man, exactly my age, to the day.
4. A white woman, exactly my age, to the day. I can assure you, she’s nothing like me.
I’m the motherfucking man
Ran into him, he’s a fan.
1. A pine tree
2. My knee
3. An empty nest in a bare walnut tree
4. My phone
5. A mound of dirty snow
6. An old burnt match on the deck
7. A cat cage
8. The sky
9. My neighbor’s tv antenna
10. Other shit
Dadgum I been told time and time again I’m not aloud to sing those rap songs in front of my kids. “It’s just not cool for a middle-aged woman to be saying those words in public,” she says. But so what, I mean, it’s not even funny how easily those words stick to your brain when you’re forced to listen to them loud in the enclosed space of an automobile moving at high speed. I’m not trying to be cool-those songs just grow on you. Gotta go both ways, girls. Next time I hear you singing Jean Jeanie or Piano Man, how about I upbraid you mercilessly-would that be right?
All lullabies are gonna soothe and get those brain waves in sync. Music is for everybody.
N*ggas say I’m real, b**ches say I’m hot
Disrespect the mob squad then you get shot
We don’t dial 9-1-1, we don’t f**k with cops
1-8-7 to the f**king opps
It makes me feel better
She was in a state of suspended animation.
She had lost all volition and could not intentionally move left or right or forward. She felt at times as though she was falling backward, but she wasn’t. She was simply stuck, upright, smiling or crying, seeming to interact with others, seeming to function in the world, but this was an illusion. She had no agency.
How about that?
Watching juvies come and go
Speaking of Michelangelo
I’m looking at a close-up of a very old man with eager, bleary blue eyes. He is speaking very highly of the murder victim.
What will tomorrow bring?
I am the idiot savant. I am the self-taught man. I am a Jude the Obscure who squeezed his way through the doors of the Academy. I am the resentful petty functionary in a short Russian novel.
And from now on I swear I will write an entry once a day. Forever until I am no more.
The Land of Cotton
Sounds so beautiful
Like Heaven is supposed to be
Cotton like cloud like like Heaven
But having been in an aeroplane,
I know that there’s no Heaven up there
Above those clouds
And between those clods
the cotton plants push
and aim their fluffy faces
at those clouds
(this is a poem)