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 Sleep.. and a dead standstill. It's amazing how addictive the road is, like a drug you need so bad you don't mind running for it, always running. but then stopping is drug as well, a different kind of drug like Valium next to the cocaine of the highway. the stopping drug comes on slow, crawling across your tongue in the slack-jawed innocence of sleep like the stuff of the witch's poppy field just shy of the gates of Oz. Sleeeeep! All I want to do here is sleep. And in this heat, it is unquestionably the right thing to do. Sleep. To hell with the story. Rolling Stone will never publish it anyway. Sleeeep, says the wicked witch. Sleeeeep! You have no money to go on. Duke is tired and seizing up like a tin man in the rain. You can't take it, you weak-kneed pussy cat. Sleep! Surrender yourself to THE TRUTH that you are not able to go on! The road is long and there's not a yellow brick on it. Just the runny shit of cowards loose-boweled with fear of the unknown. Doom! Sleep, my little angel, my doped and dead-eyed would-be hero, the sands of time are not yours but mine. The donkey-eared children are smoking butts and giggling.
This may mean nothing
Corvallis. God, what a waste of real estate. Last night Jill had a nightmare. I heard her crying and assured her that it was only a dream. But she could not shake it, and upon waking wanted to tell me about it. I told her I wanted nothing to do with it. I am on a strict diet of positive thought these days. I have enough of my own black thoughts. I don't need anyone else's. This afternoon we make love like cheetahs. The sun is hot. |
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