Tuesday, November 3, 2015


All the way to  Albuquerque, what was 
the name of that place, and how do these 
people remember? I fresno'd my drip-dry 
diner until it fell apart in the streets. We 
stopped in some tiny little adobe town 
where everything was run by pedals and 
cranks and pulleys. Even the kids ran through 
the streets in an erratic start/stop manner. The
guy who came out of the house to talk, he said
he was twenty-eight; but you swore he looked
twenty-nine or thirty. I had to say, quite simply,
get over it, and stop looking so hard. He wore
camo-shorts, the kind with the big pockets. I
hate that stuff  - and he had a bulge in his pants
even thought they were loose-fitting. I swear it 
was a shoe he was packing. How far from normal
were we, anyway? Then you (you had to) say 
something funny again : 'I think there's a town
named Normal around here somewhere.' No,
that's Illinois, babe, was all I knew  -  turns out,
after looking it up, there's some five places 
called Normal. Is that where I want to be, in 
one of them? Not for me now, this distance,
and the mileage marker. They should
come to me.

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