I hope for rain.
I talk too much when I’m drunk. When I’m stoned. I don’t even know what I’m saying mostly.
I watch this river snake its way to the ocean. I don’t like oceans. I do like lakes. I can wrap my head around the idea of a lake.
I watch these trucks sulk their way through the port of entry. The state police checking weights and measurements, permits and logs. Everyone playing the same game but by different rules.
I watch a skunk drag its broken back half across the hot pavement towards the cool tall grass to wait for death, hoping it comes quickly.
I hope for rain.
In the middle of Ohio there’s a demolition derby. It’s called Bash for Cash. Or some other rhyming scheme. A flooded farmer’s field covered end to end with RVs and campers. I walk through a maze of drill sergeants and flags and land mines. Never finding an end. I wake feeling confused and lonely. And very old.
In Omaha we walk along an artificial river. Lost, late, looking. For something unknown. Knowing there’s only nothing. The sky turns dark and angry, throws hail at the earth. We run, seeking cover. Finding none, we run. The sky turns blue and bright and the birds come out to play. We find a place of rest. A place with chairs and whiskey. All you want is sleep. But you’re concussed. So I stay up all night telling you stories. So you don’t die.
The snakes are hiding, the tigers are sleeping, the gorillas are fighting. But the penguins are having fun.
There’s a new girl working at the cold storage. Young, blonde, bright eyes. The line moves so much more slowly now but nobody seems to mind. Someone gave her an expensive looking thing to wear on her finger. But truck drivers are unimpressed by diamond rings.
The woman who collects my piss is standoffish. She issues orders in curt voice. Tells me to empty my pockets, tells me to wash my hands. She’s a police wearing scrubs. When I’m finished, she’s standing outside the door. She smiles. “Show off,” she says. Which confuses me. Peeing is easy.
The night before Christmas. Rain falls steadily from low clouds. We are refugees in a downtown bar. We chase the acid with Irish whiskey. Chase the whiskey with PBR. There’s a bell next to the door. We stand there giving angels their wings until the bartender invites us to leave. We walk home through the rain, our clothes growing heavy. We steal firewood from behind a frat house with the idea that a fire would be nice, this night before Christmas. At the apartment, we turn on every light, but the wood won’t catch. It smolders like a living thing. Fills the room with thick white smoke. We open the windows, go out to the fire escape, try to light a joint. We invent a language. The fire alarm goes off, our neighbors wake. We wait for Santa, wait for Godot. We wait for the police to come arrest us.
We’ll go to Vesuvio and sit upstairs. From a table in the corner we’ll watch the 41 come and go, the tourists going into City Lights, the sailors coming out of the Condor. We’ll talk about religion and politics and death. We’ll drink whiskey and beer and wine. We’ll pretend to write poetry. And pretend we’re changing the world.
Friday, February 27, 2015
Sometimes a driver dies in his truck. And not in some crash on some highway. But dies in his sleep. At some truck stop. And maybe he’s not found for four or five days. After he stops calling his wife. After he fails to deliver his load. And really nobody’s in a hurry to find him. A wife looking for her husband. A company looking for its load. His truck passed four or five times a day by an employee emptying the trash.
Monday, February 23, 2015
It’s a strange thing, dying on the Interstate. All the angry people honking their horns, in such a hurry to get to where they have to go. And the State Troopers, with their stern faces and flashing blue lights, blocking the lanes. And tenderly covering you with a green blanket.