9507

Sometimes I’m braiding three wild mustang’s tails together into one. Nothing dormant. Kaleidoscope evolution. Noah & his family/music/life one tail – John Ashbury again reciting “To The Harbormaster” at Frank O’Hara’s funeral & James Schulyer interjects “Daylight” –

And when I thought
“Our love might end”
the sun
went right on shining


Allman Brothers rip into heart breaking, soul terrifying, blues shaking “Whipping Post”. Threatens most sublime existence. Inhale fresh cut grass as buddy recounts gutting some bastard who passed out after raping his girlfriend. & they wonder why my blood pressure is high. It’s the drive baby & this mother fuck’n amazing view. The view. The view bleak hold your own hands baby cause we’re all goin’ to die & nothing goin’ to warn us or stop it. But the sun will always rise & plop that big ass down. Shake shake squeeze. Is this a result of prison. Of solitude. “What”. As we interrupt, Albee’s play the point. Who stops in the middle of the day, in the middle of work, middle of coffee, middle of piss statement question big mac sandwich. Well – I don’t know. I stop. My kidney’s work fine & my questions are rarely answered & my statements are questioned & I got no job & the middle of my day is rarely remembered cause when I do remember to remember my head is hitting this state owned pillow & I’m back on the wing again.

If you need two points to compose a line but only one for a circle & if the circle remains unbroken then why should we stop? We don’t stop for nature. We stop upon man. Nature serves every purpose & man subjects. As I listened to the Allman Brothers today on a very clear, hot, wonderful September afternoon all decked out in my state greens, funky ass used headphones attached to my head like some crazed aviator in a 1930’s B&W Marrakesh Express “You are there” film & Whipping Post does it’s thing. I’m back in Waukegan circa 1986 & Colette is as sweet & gorgeous as ever & Evan’s alive & he & Noah are hanging out in the front yard & I’m refinishing some fucked up piece of shit chair I some how believe is “important”. We’re struggling to make ends meet on welfare. Me laying carpet, selling furniture. Trying to figure the American way – but just good ole white trash intellectuals thinking we’re going to make a/the difference & it’s spring & for once I’m not bitching & Marvin Gaye is still alive & that fucking circle is unbroken but dragging & we’re dying but still struggling & now as those guitars moan I can say fuck, what did we do? Why are we here? & figure what in God’s name I sound like some crazied fat man that just ate 4 boxes of Little Debbies. I’m still hungry.

What the hell man – it ain’t the destination baby! It’s the motherfuckin trip. It’s the trip. Our trip & we are those navigators – the drivers – the passengers. The song ends & my armpits glide where normally only friction is & I’m grateful & I’m blessed. Yeah, still broke & stupid & cockeyed & pigeon toed. But I’m here & you’re here so grab those other passagogoes & drive baby drive! I got a brand new baby seat in my car. In our car. My son Noah’s & Amanda’s car. & Colette’s & Richard’s & Pat’s & John’s & Pat’s & Gary’s – all our travelers from all our trips. Yeah even those who have moved on. We’re taking them too. Cause baby it’s what’s always been in front – let’s move.
I’m gone.
Later.