Monday, November 28, 2011

page 18

time while I make a cocktail and spin in my reasons the late night calls from the backdoor man never wanting to kid Jane too much about praying before she got in bed she felt to need to every now and then I couldn’t understand and I couldn’t explain beating me out the room a thin old little bum I jumped up and flapped my arms trying to complete the ritual to bring Santa Barbara back to life she was dead like a president no life no store bought candy no highway 101 to protect and serve the food was good but the service was terrible the examination of your large intestine walking nightmares America with her language theories debating with the lazy boy chair  the worthiness of her appendages she sought value were none originally existed composed in a visionary tongue the return of the outlaw couple and my feelings that everything was dead I suppose you could call it a sickness it seemed more natural to this life to me haphazard hand signals the one and only holy thing a shovel in the trunk to bury the body running numbers and the dogs having to sweat and curse to make a living a real Oklahoma side burned accent it was no accident that we met in front of the drugstore it was providence singing a country boy can survive I carried a five inch blade back then and used it to pry the door open most places didn’t have alarms back then especially backwoods dumps like this her hands were hanging in her lap fixed to a wide stare she never saw gods working before a surrealist woman in a serious room in the gray light of the day and the days dragged on as we drank beer all day and shot up the drugs she was awfully dumb and capable of doing horrible things the more horrible the better Tim found her on fourth street asking guys if they wanted a date without modified restraints flashing from the excitement rushing eagerly down the streets  the whole mad swirl of everything watching lilo and stitch she was taking notes studying the nuances headlong into the blank perspectives reaching the completion of the cycle it was time to move on to head down the road I sold everything and bought an old piece of crap that I thought got good gas mileage clinging to my work clothes and the ethic that was so hard to remove I had the devils cast out of me and was ready to go surrealist talk of tires and burning oil formal and shining and complete I knew that visions would be handed to me and the pearls of the swine we clutched our forks and squealed like good little robots we had been oiled to serve the industry to make the machine turn it turns in my mind still we burned the shack down on California street the band had been practicing there for over a year the lawn would be filled with parked cars in the summer everyone gathered to listen to us jam Toby learned to talk like a Frenchman and Willie sent down thunderclaps that put the fear of god in us all he looked like a madman with his hair all wet walking after midnight in the jungle the train yard was a block away and the night watchman lived at the end of the street he drank pbr and smoked camel nonfilters he had tattoos of naked girls on both forearms he got them when he was in the navy willie jumped on one of the trains and disappeared for three or four years he came back with a big scar on the left side of his face that he said he got in a bar fight in Kentucky smelling like the typical rank smelling body of America standing in purple darkness she had the eyes of someone I used to know a friend of a

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