THAT POUNDING ON
THE TRAVELER'S HEART
Make sure of this you fucking fool : carnal space is
no space at all and travel in a knapsack sucks. Yes,
right there, they were all lined up - sick travelers
and wild pilgrims, guys with ticket stubs coming out
their gay asses, and thirteen fabulous women, each
one with a knife stuck in her back. The ticket collector,
the man with the black eye, was standing by.
-
By the time we reached the terminal at Cincinnati
it was all over. Every little crestfallen nip and tuck
had told its story and led its owner away. Now,
instead of two hundred we were a paltry thirty
nine. And the skyline, that skyline of red and rouge,
was turning cartwheels in the sky. Each one told its
story and even I had mine. Circumlocution with
beautiful lips, and nothing more to be said.
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