Friday, April 21, 2017


'Oh carry me back to Ole' Virginny.'
Yes, just like a dream I heard that
spoken in a small-town cafe. I was
just sitting there, and the girl with
the rain-kerchief on came in. She
came right over and asked if she 
could sit. I said, 'What would happen
if I said 'No?' Would I awaken, and
find you were gone?' She laughed
and just said, 'Maybe, maybe not;
but would you know what to do
with a million bucks anyway?' 
I love talk like that  -  you see it's
all like abstract art but with words. 
We go where it leads. Usually I don't
like talking - the miasma of the small,
those words and concepts I can never
understand. But this is like blush, with
the eyes and the mind. Different, for sure.
Oh, tweedle-dee, they've got some old
book jackets up on the wall, framed. It
gives the pretension that they're a literary
salon instead of a small town coffee shop
which only recently was a furniture store
that went broke. Maybe there's a story
there, but I don't know. Water and suicide.
Intuitive vision. Whatever you will.
Hemingway? No! Jeez I hated that guy. He
wrote like a gut-string, nothing but bluster.
The scream of a cat on a hot stretch-bar.

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