Interstate Diary

The Fear of Politics

2008-10-07T22:20:00.000-07:00

D.C. where the leaves fall off the trees slowly. Twin Peaks resonates off of Capital Hill but we hear none of it. We split sentences and they are not remotely us. And there’s an underlying factor… I’m convinced. The underlying factor is that the 50’s is America today. It really is. The reason why it is is because everything that happens occurs behind closed doors. Neighbors want to know what the other is up to. They want to know whether the other is a neigh-sayer. (The White house sits kitty corner to the Vietnam Memorial) The area’s quiteude creeps around corners like expensive cars. They all run on red light specials because money has mind. They’re all brained as far as I’m concerned. But, I ask one thing for the sake of my own well being for now… let’s all sink slowly into our pillows of imagination. Our warm slumber says that everything’s going to be okay, someday. Let us all fall asleep wishing…eternally.

9/11 Piece (A void)

2008-10-01T19:18:00.000-07:00

Today we went to ground zero.
I saw Americans staring at a void.

They, for once, stared with child eyes, rubbernecking like ghosts in the graveyard, gawking at the grotesque,

"Support our troops," "Bush knew," "No blood for oil," "9/11 was and inside job,"
That's what all the bumper stickers told me.

But, the job's been done.
It was done 8 years ago.
And I've never seen Americans stare into a void.

New York Piece

2008-10-01T19:00:00.000-07:00

New York swirls in spirals like vertigo from skyscrapers. An insomniac’s delight that dances and screams like a beautiful lunatic in the lunar illuminated landscape. Its people ride on the shoulders of the raving beast who dons belts and earrings of subway tracks and wears sweaters of Williamsburg projects, Harlem coffee shops, and lower east side parks. Taxis mingle and muddle traffic- skin cells and hairs on a body of sweat and blood. And the crowd’s growing wilder with the beast. Some of them hide underground, commuting from Brooklyn to Manhattan and back again, they fill up the corner Bodegas at 3:35 in the morning for more booze and walk 20 ghetto blocks to ramshackle apartments in the projects to meet hipsters in low black pants, City kids pick their Afros on the crowded subway trains, next to Mohawks, braids, clean cuts and strippers with hair to their back. Business men run from Wall Street to Times Square for an adrenaline sandwich, throwing their ties over the shoulder and flailing their arms wildly for a taxi back to their 37th story offices. The local is fortune teller on the subway telling you what will happen when the train doors open. The train stops and everyone floods the tunnels like blood cells down a narrow capillary or a wormhole tunnel that extends from one end of the big apple all the way to the other side-Coney Island all the way to Upper Manhattan. And I say to myself as I bounce to the rhythm of the buzzing busy streets, “I can rest for eternities if my soul were to ever leave New York City. But, for now I will walk with a somnambulant stagger dreaming of a city that never sleeps.”

Cold, Cold East Coast

2008-10-01T18:36:00.000-07:00

She asked me if it was cold like the east coast. I balled my hands and shoved them under my sweater, near my empty stomach. I imagined how cold she was and if she would ever be warm to me again. I wondered if she had frozen up in my absence, my drunken phone calls, my jokes from far away, my distance. I wondered if she would always stare at me like every frozen face I saw in Boston, they must have worn ski masks in the winter I think and imagine it for a while. While holding back tears and laughter I pull my hood over my eyes and bite the neck of my sweater like an eight year old boy. “I don’t know but they must have rubbed off on me,” I respond. It starts to snow and the moment it hits my hood it melts and saturates my hair in minutes. There’s icicles in the lawn of my friends house, there’s snow coming from the sky and there’s a faint but poignant feeling that the upcoming holiday might not be as fun as it was last year.

Death Piece

2008-10-01T18:34:00.001-07:00

When I die I want people to just say that his heart got too big. I want people to look back and say all his rambin days blew up his heart big, like a balloon and every breath he took of new air, every time he launched out of the passenger seat of a speeding car letting the rain whack his new eyes and cried and screamed at the city from a bridge and every time he puffed his cigarette in a lonely bar and stamped it out and put another dollar in the jukebox his heart got a little larger until it crowded the rest of his organs and they played on until they tired and expired with him. I want my ashes to be spread coast to coast by my family so they can travel and see the same beauty I saw. I want them to see me wrapped in my mind, barreling down a barren interstate singing and laughing and hailing the sun and cursing the moon and then hailing the moon and cursing the sun. I want them to know that the pain in my chest was just a fire and that I could not slow down to put it out. So, instead I cupped the fire in my hands and hoped for the best, letting the wild winds fan it. And I also want them to understand that the fire was only passion, burning and glowing bright as the sun and I’d be a fool to stop now. I just came too far guys. But, I’ll continue on until I reach the sun and moon. I promise. I’ll call you guys when I reach the heavens.

Black Widow's Affair

2008-10-01T18:30:00.000-07:00

This has been a day of walking in the singing streets, doing somersaults in sobriety next to subterranean homesickness. Lifting homeless sheets from the gray ground where they get soaked in the sea salt water of a sulking Christ and thrown carelessly into a dark corner closet of dreams. And the mud on it is just mud, or clay, the element of all creations, where fingers dribble with it in their creative confidence.
With all this confusion, I just generally escape, rolling my pant legs up like some young Huckleberry and rowing to that old Mississippi ferry that rolls in the flowing uncertainty. And I can ascertain, everyone, that time is some great grating block in the sky and it winds like a breeze and it’s chilling me and I haven’t much time and I know that the road will eat your heart and I know that the people who love you will wear rubber gloves and dive down your throat trying to fish for that part of you that used to exist. They’ll reach for that one very small part that they loved or that reminded them of them. But, it’s all fruitless down there…it just is. What I try to tell her when she starts that song and dance is that she needs to put on my mother’s garden gloves and reach up towards the banana and apples in the sky, the crescent moon and stars-- and that my throat hurts. I understand that the itch to belong with the one that you love but sometimes their love is just too much. It hugs you until you aren’t breathing right and all the blood rushes to your head and feet, coming out your nose, mouth and from underneath your toenails. Love hurts like an iron maiden and everyone knows it. It locks you in its web and penetrates you, suffocates you, squeezes you and drains you of your blood. It’s a Buddhist’s fast, a sky burial, an experience for the masochistically devout only.
But honey, I’ve had a black widow’s affair with traffic lines, street signs and cornfields at dusk. We lay in the back of the van, coasting on bloodlines and smoked cigarettes and laughed after our affair and I thought a lot about you but knew that she would never let you into our web. I even fanaticized that she let you in and you would get stuck with us. Knowing that would never be possible, I just let it go. I let it go because I would never let myself put you in that web. You already hung so peacefully in the one you made for us…alone. I let it all go like I told you. I let it all go because of the cannibalistic road. I chose a road that feeds on the hearts of men. And I’m sorry but, every man on its poison, passionate, black, dead, stinging asphalt becomes savage as the beast. It could take years and years to heal, to stop the burning and cure the bite. I guess we just have to have faith in homeless sheets and the fruitful wishes shipped north to the stars and out of basement thoughts and closet-scapes we made.

American Metal Winds

2008-10-01T18:20:00.000-07:00

This is the road. This is the Pittsburgh tumbles. This is the Grand Rapids. This just is. And I’ve been saving these things up in the belly of my mind for many years, running fire escapes of thought and trying to make it happen. I’ve been casting my net out into a sea of wishing stars in the penny well sky, saving up all my dreams for you, America. And my heart no longer beats, it rambles. And my blood no longer dribbles, it spirts out of me and covers everything. And my mind isn’t ever in any one place it’s spattered from home to Michigan. And I don’t…yeah, I’m pretty sure that after this I will never really quite be sane.

No! I will never be sane. I think as I blew kisses to you when you left my cul-de-sac, we both had tears. I cried for you and blew kisses so hard that in that very instant I think I blew away all my sanity. I puffed my cheeks up big like Dizzy Gillespie and blew it all away. What ever was left was definitely blown away by the wind when I stuck my head out of the window, leaving town. But if there were words to describe they would bounce like children on mom and dad’s king size bed, leaping crazy off walls of rhythm jaw, slamming into syllables sometimes mis-rhyming them and hyphens would get hyphy in a heretic’s guffaw, lost to the stars and the glimmers of me in my ness. Only because ness is useless, useless because it is lost like a coin. Lost like the mind of a tired drunk. Lost like a dog. Lost like me, in my summer drunk, lovelorn, ramblin’ spirit, bittersweet loneliness because I’m just lonely and winded with puckered lips blowin’ it all away on you, America.

Pre-Birthday Piece

2008-10-01T18:18:00.000-07:00

We all sat beneath neon light in my best friend’s house. People were dancing like it was the last day on earth. They put their favorite drink called life in their engorged bellies and tucked away what belies. Noticing the happy forgetful façade of today, birthday, I sit like a broken papier-mâché puppet on my stoop and smoke. The smoke fills my glass eyes. I am the wood seat. She is the neon that lights the room. He dances with her. I hang my head with a big happy birthday sigh.

Good Bye Grand Rapids

2008-10-01T18:09:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow starts the second leg of the road. We worked for two weeks and it’s time to head out. Sitting at our new friends’ house, we drink our wine, realizing our bloods might never cross paths again. We ignore it like a bad movie. We turn it down like an awful song. We don’t have the proper voices to sing our goodbyes until later. But, in our beds, when we dream, we will cast our nets out, holding gratitude in our arms for a final embrace.

From the back of the room

2008-08-20T12:26:00.000-07:00

It's another sleepy night watching time reel past from the back of a barsmoke stool seat. The ladies are chirping after a summer rain. And I unwind, clutiching my wrists and holding my shoulders, pondering a lottery of lust as my mind jumps between daisy dukes, juke joints and my love. Her flesh and passion hanging vulnerably on a broken swing over "love lakes of soul." I answer to her, "there are 1,000 my dear" and touch her head reassuringly.

A Dream in St. Louis

2008-08-20T12:13:00.000-07:00

I dreamt of Kate Chopin holding a fluffy stuffed sheep, her child, ravaged by mosquitos and wasps. In this Creole town, her child dons buttons for eyes that now exit the head. One sits on top of her green velvet slipper, the other holding on by a knotted piece of dental floss, skimming the mud she stands in. In the below zero freeze there's and indian chief in the grass, rigimortus clutching his bow and there's an old soldier medicating his own.

In St. Louis

2008-08-20T12:08:00.000-07:00

Let the blues play,
Let the marionettes dangle and tango from the hunchback arch of a silver puppeteer,
Let the wild Mississippi flow,
Let men make dams,
And let my friends swing,
Singing with ciccadas discovering their song,
And sometimes if you just don't touch it...fire flys.

Chicago for the speechless. (Samantha's Piece)

2008-08-20T10:56:00.001-07:00

We made up for lost time in a star spangled hotel on the west side of town. Both of us were lost in that city, Chicago. In that hotel, Hayatt. In our eyes. I kept lifting your glass to see you straight and at once we saw each other, dead on. We rang bells in empty alleys and went undercover for security, you and me. We marched down streets alone in blue light because this time would never last forever, conversing with phantoms and tonguing away our tremors from stress. I wanted you to be my angel and I’d fold up your delicate wings or burn them off if I had to, to fit you in my pocket. I missed you before you came, while you were there, before you left and now that you’re gone and I'm still at that airport aimless after you. I’m still telling you “my love” and that doesn’t do it justice. I’m still whispering the last thing I was able to say before that plane took you away. “I love you and I’ll miss you. But, those words don’t express how I feel. There’s got to be better words. I’ve got to get some better words.”

The Rewinds

2008-08-20T10:56:00.000-07:00

Michigan in its spotted watery physique! The Great Lake is placid, veiling the problems that exist below the surface. We learn of a crumbling car industry once used to fuel the residents of Motortown. Then, The Pistons just sort of stopped. Ripple effect from the city, it’s a state where few do well and its future is bleak. I have yet to see Detroit. But, for the first time I peer shyly down the road, thinking I might be ashamed of what the forgiving interstate might grant me. If I peel the historical façade away; of Motown and the Great Migrations, I might feel like I’m entering a place like New Orleans post Katrina. Like suddenly, Lake Michigan flooded and spilled out all over the Upper Peninsula down to Detroit and people are drowning in a city of industry went belly up. But, for every issue that exists in the depths of Lake Michigan, the turmoil wears a striking face. Its charm is an emerald green and shimmering oceanic expanse, great for swim and a million other recreations. The trees are slim and tall, rocking in the wind and often times striving to grab another nearby limb as they go, tangoing past each other in the night wind. The people seem to enjoy life to a degree I’m unfamiliar with. They leap at adventure and seem to sprinkle their daily lives with it. They like travelers and will donate their possessions and couches and rooms for a person who has chosen the path I have.

Feeling thankful for the Michiganders’ pleasant attributes, I reside for the night at a friend’s mother’s house, Catherine, spoiled to a fancy Bayou bistro in her hometown. After dinner, with my belly full of the tastiest and most ornate food I have consumed thus far, I walk all happy and fat through a local convenience store where she buys munchies to go with the three movies rented. I stare with a child’s excitement as the scanner at the register says, beep….beep….beep….beep and I get goodies and movies and a nice relaxing night in a home with a bed and a shower, her generous heart shining down all over. Entering the house, I think of Christine. This isn’t the house she grew up in because her mother has since moved. But, her pictures cover the refrigerator, chronicling her adventurous life. And, in one of the rooms sits quietly, a big piece of paper atop a wooden dresser that says, “I love you mom! Love Chris.” The blue ink of my friend’s pen, comforting me.

That was all today. But, before I sleep I must rewind back to Rapid City (hi Emily), The Badlands, Sioux City, Kansas City, St. Louis Blues, Chicago the empire city in my mind, and now home, in Traverse City, Michigan, where things look up from the depths of the lake and the shining, churning spectacle calls me in and its tongue pushes my body to the desires of its whim as I flounder in the mouth of a watery Michigan.

Pinocchio's Wooden Leg

2008-08-20T10:43:00.000-07:00

There was once a boy who wasn’t quite a boy but never really a man. He teetered eternally. His boyishness, his inability to never stop dreaming, of adventuring, of digging in the sand for artifacts of ancient civilizations, of riding his bike to China…across the Great Wall and back home, returning as a man, kept him, through his adolescence and into manhood, still a boy. You may ask why he was still a boy when obviously a man. He owned a beard, a car, he had sex with women since adolescence, he read the newspaper, dreamed politics and sold his toys for gas to get to work…clearly rites of passage in society’s eyes, no? A resounding no fills the air like a choir of neighs at a Victorian Era township conference where new laws would manifest and a woman’s destiny would be put on the line of a wigged judge’s mallet and his scaffold out back, her, baring the letter A on her chest. If there was ever a decision he made, it was to remain young and free until he could be old and dignified. He ascribed to a strict system of beliefs laid out by his forefathers whom he had long forgotten their names, faces and exact words. But, while he stood before a steamy mirror where he could only see his reflection in the drips of water that gathered near the light fixture and dribbled their way down the mirror to the base of the faucet, the ideas of his forefathers would come clear because in this state of steamy wetness, promptly after his shower he would repeat the philosophy, often times changing the words depending on his mood so that the idea…his idea of life would always be fresh in his mind. He believed that maturity did not exist on any sort of scale of age and one could not calculate his maturity level by looking at other people’s years or accomplishments. He thought that those who were maturely handicapped like him, were only handicapped in society’s eyes but, blessed in the eyes of his forefather’s who dreamt up the philosophy while in the womb. His problem was not that he refused to grow up, start a family when his parents did, or act the same as adults his age but, that most adults had not done all the work on themselves that they needed to do before they started taking their big steps into a world that they had no business entering. The boy knew that he would have to remain a boy until he dug in the sand and found something. He needed to try to ride his bike to China, fail, and have to take a plane back home and start with nothing all over again. He had to do all these things that men he knows hadn’t done and when he had lived all the dreams he had as a boy then he would finally be a man, capable of all things that men are capable of in fictional stories. He would be a real man. But first, the boy had to become a real boy.

On Writing

2008-07-31T18:01:00.000-07:00

They told me to write even when it’s hard to. But, what do you talk about when there’s nothing to say. I could write about the weather…yeah, yeah…the weather’s a good one. Let’s write about the weather. Me, my fingers and my brain, we’ll all sit down in this little coffee shop/bar in Lawrence, Kansas and we’ll write about the weather. It’s hot and muggy. That’s what the weatherman said in Iowa. Jesus Christ this isn’t woooorrrrrkiiiiiiiiinnnnnnggg. I’m sweating bullets up here. Somebody help me. Give me something. Maybe the bartender’s shirt will catch on fire if I go order a beer. HOLD ON!!!!! I’ll be right back. Don’t you get all bored and walk away. I promise I’ll be right back with my cold beer and something hot off the presses just for you.

(5 minutes later….one cigarette later….half a Miller High Life later)

Alright, I’m back. There’s something I want to say. It’s really important. My heart… is racing. It’s going fast. I asked the bartender for a beer. I lied to you. I went out for a smoke so I didn’t really come right back like I had earlier advertized…my bad. But, something happened out there in the hot and muggy. A short bus pulled up along the bus stop and---are you ready for this----people got out, about three of them. Some of them were pretty, some of them were old, some were just pretty old. But, I’m sure there were exactly three. Three! Now that’s an interesting number. It has so much authority. It’s not solo, it’s not a couple, it’s a commanding trio of ones. Your mother says your three names spaced out like this: Brad…ley……Will….iam……..Colli…..ns!!! You have ‘til the count of 3 to take out the trash and empty the bar garbage too. Wait this sucks. I know it because I just read it aloud. Have I written a page yet? I try to write a page a day. Have I told you that before? I don’t think I have. Let me check my watch. Yup. It’s true, I try and write a page a day.

Oh man, I can hear the crickets chirping. We’ll…yeah, that’s something I could write beautifully about. The cicadas out here…well, if you were really out here then it would be, most likely, cicadas that I would hear, not crickets. I mean if you went throughout the state with a fine-toothed comb looking for crickets I’m sure you would find a whole bunch. But, I think that you would probably find more cicadas. They’re like ninjas though, I don’t know what one looks like but they’re so loud on the freeway that you think something’s going wrong with your car. Okay, that’s close enough to a page and Isaac’s talking about getting dinner. I gotta go. My fingers feel like broken toothpicks soaked it a barrel of gasoline, oil and gin. Just do me a favor and don’t ever read this blog again. I probably shouldn’t even post this.

Stampede Night II: Calgary, Alberta

2008-07-28T16:54:00.000-07:00

We woke up astonished at our ability to destroy ourselves. With a head full of stars and bars we drove out to the river that separates the two halves of this sprawling and massive Canadian city. I day dreamt of swimming in the flowing dragon tail of water and rocks but, coming to my senses, I realized the swim was much too treacherous for a novice like myself.

In our still intoxicated day haze we headed to the mall where there was supposed to be a garden on top of it all. In disbelief we projected ourselves up the labyrinth of escalators like switchbacks up a great mountain. Reaching our destination atop the city we found a lush green garden complete with coy and turtles. There were bridesmaids walking briskly, disregarding the flowing pink dresses that hung off their shoulders and swept the cold, wet concrete. There were icy black statues of boy and girl nymphs sitting cross-legged and holding their feet with the matted ivy beneath their bottoms. And there were tourists, getting the last photographs they could out of this wet garden heaven sitting atop the hell shopping Mecca all before the wedding began. We left too, before the time of vows approached.

Getting back into the van and feeling a little bit better we picked up our friend, Mike at the coffee shop where we left him and drove around a little bit more. In this time we chose to not spend our second night in the sea of cowboy hats, but still in this city. We were recommended by a woman at the health food coop to spend our evening in the Kensington District. After going to a bar outside the Kensington to chat up some locals, it was confirmed that the Kensington was in fact the right place to go if we were looking for a less excited intoxicated environment. We parked at a Safeway near Kensington Street and began our night, one lone compadre still deciding to take a nap in the van.

Up a few blocks and over a few blocks was The Kensington Pub, a small homey looking joint of three stories where everything was friendly and there were no cowboy hats. I walked down stairs to relieve myself while Mike got a beer. I heard him talking from downstairs on my way up and knew that we had already found some company. It was James, a tie-dyed shirt wearing conversationalist drinking just like we were and friendly as hell. He gets to telling us that his mother is from Hopland, about 20 minutes outside of our homestead residence and we are struck by coincidence. The night gets all thrown together in tumblers and served out before us and we get to talking about United States politics and how James was beat up in Pennsylvania as a young accidental ladies’ man and we are having a good time. James talks to us about his garden and his plans to move to British Columbia where the land is greener and cheaper. He plans on getting his own slice of earth and sustaining his family off of the great fruitions of his gardening labor. His plan sounded so rich, I jump between everyone and say we all ought to start a commune. At this time, Compadre Sleepyhead enters the bar and throws down his ID and some money for beer and soup. The lady at the bar goes all big eyed at the sight of Santa Rosa on his ID card. She went to the Santa Rosa Junior College and used to work on 4th Street Downtown Santa Rosa. Conversations undress and show interesting more coincidental underbellies and we’re suddenly in a bar where the man sitting to my left is named Jamie who works in San Jose…just visiting, the man to my right has been all over and has a mother in Hopland and the woman before me is from Santa Rosa.

In the midst of all this madness we hear that there’s a pool room across the street and we go over there, light up the juke box with our favorites and play until the damn thing closes. Since Kensington yawns at around 11:30 and brushes its teeth around 12:00, we were out of Sam’s by around then and going next door to the Karaoke bar.

James breaks me in to the idea of Karaoke. I nervously and very aware, pick a song that I knew there was no possible way to botch. I tell the DJ to tune the dial to Bob Dylan’s “Rainy Day Woman.” My card reads, “Bob Dylan Himself” and so I’m introduced, bouncing on stage, bobbing my little head, blowing a harmonica sound into the mic when I felt it was fit. The DJ mentioned that Bob got a little bit younger looking than his last appearance. But, it didn’t matter because I was all wined and beerd and whiskeyd and dancin’ up there like a hound doggon relax-oozer. After the standard verse, chorus, verse, chorus, verse, chorus, the song was over and that was my cue to get off stage. I do. On my way off, I get called over by this young looking fellow with glasses. He gives me a five with pot in it and told me I did a good job. The young fella’ was from San Francisco. I don’t smoke so I walked over to Mike and gave him a five with pot in it and told him I did a good job. Mike didn’t smoke it and we were a little boarder shy by now, so I think we pawned it to someone in Saskatchewan…I’ll never be sure.

Back at the table there’s a pitcher or a pint waiting for me, the millionth courtesy of James that night and now the pilot from last night is back to hang out before he ships himself off to the casino and we all are having a million different conversations at once laughing and singing like our own brand of karaoke music in the dancehall night. We start getting all drunk and cosmic and spiritual with each other and I tell everyone how a ghost once coerced me into eating Compadre Sleepyhead’s Funions. James tells a story that tops that, that I will never repeat and I get all starry eyed and dumbfounded.

Going back to the van, James tells us his house is open to us as long as we don’t mind his three children waking us up in the morning. He also told us we cannot mind if his wife makes us breakfast. Oh and I tell you, we walk into his house and his beautiful shy children look at us from behind corners all curly haired and tired and we know we are in a good spot because it is apparent these children are loved. His wife, Leslie tries to tuck them back into their sleepyhead beds while trying to happily greet us at the same time. And we sit out by his garden, his second pride aside from his family, and drink our moonshine as the moon shines. When we come in, the house is quiet and James folds out our bed in his office and tells us not to worry about him having to do the extra work and we wake up in that same instant. The sun creeping in through the windows and his little girls gleefully jittering and pulling the blankets off of our helpless selves. Forced into awakeness, I come out to the kitchen where breakfast is ready and we eat and talk and play with the kids, Daeus yelling A BALL! And throwing it at or away from anybody or anything.

In their home, we took naps when the kids weren’t looking and then we fell back into play and we took showers and packed our things giving many thanks and contact information. Our bellies full and our lips, again able to pronounce “a house filled with love,” we left, our time spent there, always an important reminder of how things should be.

On a Nebraska Night

2008-07-27T17:05:00.000-07:00

Miss not the enchanted Nebraska nights. The blue air rests on your skin like your yellow baby blanket. Fireflies zip high and low, dying stars on the wet grass. I follow one out to the lake, buzzed and jovial. The waters edge feels like shoes of play-dough, its muddy texture. I undress and let myself in so that we can gain an understanding of each other.

The Scarecrow's Love

2008-07-27T16:23:00.000-07:00

I went out to the railyard where trains choo-choo through, remaining always cognizant of my surroundings. I cup the thick dripping wet air in my hands, holding it like water and splashing it on my face. Just beyond the tracks sits, in a whispering row, an expansive field of corn and a lovelorn scarecrow, wearing it's owner's abandoned shirt and left, hanging in defense of the land's cashcrop. The scarecrow drips with the same dew I do, wears the same shirt...but, I pray a different heart. Following his fleshy stick arm signal, I head east down the train tracks to a Nebraskan local bar, imagining a sad scarecrow's love suspended high above pillars of fire in the torture chamber of the majestic kingdom of woe.

The People We've Met ( In short )

2008-07-24T17:33:00.000-07:00

Friends we've met along the way, let's sit and have a drink for old times sake. We have Willie in Portland, Willie Jean and Matt. They were a ball to sit and chat with. Willie Jean worked for the postal service in Alaska and he was shot once. But, the bullet only grazed his hat. There's Grace too. She was very sweet, thanks for the advice. We have Portland folk, Bea and Deagan, thanks for letting us stay at your house. Sarah thank you too. It was awesome being able to stay with you. And last but certainly not least we have Gretchen! She was awful kind for getting us a place to stay and showing us Portland and its pristine outlying areas. Thumbs up to Ship Ahoy and DV8 they were both great experiences. In Seattle, The Prost treated us well. Lisa from behind the bar played Tom Waits for our rambling hearts. Anders, the other Lisa and the many others who partied with us, there you are in our hearts and minds. Thank you for the good times. Cayla and Aaron! Thanks for putting us up. Keep climbing! I hope your garden is everything you've hoped for. Tim in Idaho. We were walking down the street looking for something to eat. Tim invited us out to lunch with him and showed us a hidden swimming hole by the lake. Butte, Montana crew! Oh my GOD! Respect and thanks. Sean, the multi faceted writer, reader, singer, guitarist, conversationalist and pizza chef. Thanks for all the hospitality, sorry we couldn't get you out to Anaconda. Cody, it was a pleasure talking out in front of the coffee shop and seeing you later at the bars. We were on the news, Man! The bikers is Babb! I enjoyed the vulgar humor. I'm glad we could own that motel with you guys. Steve, I hope those firecrackers went to good use. Tommy Gates on the reservation. The V was a good time we appreciate the shots. Fuck the boarder patrol. But, I always have love for the Calgary Crew. Chris, it was nice talking at the Drummin' Monkey. Alex and Jeff keep flying high, sorry you didn't make it out to Banff. The cowboys were assholes. But, it made for a good story. Jamie in the Kensington, we'll see you in San Jose. And last but not least ,James and his beautiful family and home. Thanks for all the good times. May your house always be filled with the love of 1,000 hearts. A BALL! Thanks for breakfast Leslie. Craig in Banff. Thanks for the talk by the fire. May the rest of your trip go well. Fuck the boarder patrol again. South Dakota! Rapid City ladies thank you all so much. Emily you are a Super Hero! Keep teaching dance! you are a completely awesome person. The Chute Rooster really IS haunted. Much love and thanks. TL and TM, Monique, Bree you all are crazy. Thanks. Horseshoe bar! Greg at the bar keep living the dream out in the Badlands. Leslie and Rachael in Nebraska and David at the Roman if you are a member of Mike's family you are also a member of mine. Now let's all take a toast to the time we spent. You guys have all been great and may our paths meet again. Much love Much respect!

Just something I found from Portland.

2008-07-24T16:09:00.000-07:00

The Portland sun trickles down on day six of a six month journey. I sit with my travel companion and long time friend, Mike, as we try to a maneuver in a world of electronic communication, manicuring our digital selves as our flesh and passions become increasingly cultivated for existence in the ever-changing environment of our travels. It’s been days since we packed up our things, said goodbye to our loved ones and sacrificed the luxuries of home to quench the desire to drive around the country and document our travels in print. Already, I feel weathered, achy and sometimes yearn for the love of my girlfriend and family, but am constantly fueled to move on and explore the possibilities each location offers. In this short time we have already encountered a wealth of experiences and a handful of people, that celebrate our ambition and in turn, become part of our story.

Our first evening on the road our vehicle, Miles, braved the tortuous 101 North bringing us through Humboldt County, to a friend’s house located on in the middle of a remote forest. We were greeted at the gate by him and his full grown, snorting Pit Bull, Butters, whose owner immediately explained how to act around the dog. We were instructed to lean into him hard with our knees if he invaded our personal space and never pet him or look him in the eye. The introduction alluded to the fact that we were going to be in the presence of brown and black killing machine if we did not follow directions.

After setting up camp, we cooked a dinner of burritos in a small dark trailer by flashlight for our hosts and ourselves and sat in front of the fire, discussing the possibilities for the road ahead of us. Our discussion brought us to the decision that we were going to caravan with our host’s brother, a seasoned traveler of 17 cross country road trips up to Portland.

Calgary Stampede Night One (Sorry James, Night two is still in progress)

2008-07-23T14:45:00.000-07:00

Oh, the lightheaded road. The path is trees on a bumpy conveyor belt out my side window. Mountains are rolling stones. The moon smiles down on our exhausted tailpipes and we drink down the rusty haze of the Canadian Rockies outside of a Stampede of cowboy hats in Calgary with the cold white complexion of Banff in our rear view. I reflect back on the boarder of stars and bars and the maple leafed, more sensible one of the two.

The patrol broke our spirits, finding a two year-old trace of pot on some rolling papers, long forgotten in the bottom of my friends bag. They interrogate until your tongue is raw from answering questions and your home address and reason for coming starts sounding like Arabic on exactly its 65th regurgitation. They tell us we have to drive thirty minutes back the way we came to get print outs of our current balance in our bank accounts. I rebut their request with a very elaborate, "go to hell! Let us through!" The elaborate response was just enough for the Canadian to stop being a jerk. He let us though with no further questions, sending us, freewheeling into a dusty Alberta afternoon, seeking a rowdy Calgary night.

Calgary spins on a Lazy Susan in the windshield as we pummel down its barren interstates, looking for a kick. We approach downtown, Stampede Park where ten gallon hats have a commanding role of the sidewalks and city streets, flooding the bars and rushing into petrol stations for $10 smokes and energy drinks. Beer is $8.00 for a sixer, a pick-pocket city for a cheap drunk. We go in on a bottle of Teacher's Scotch, passing it around in the van while staring at a traffic accident and Canadian cops too close for comfort.

We spark conversation with an African man. His eyes, big and dark, sparkle and glow as we explain our vision for this trip. We find he has driven all throughout Canada and The U.S., but, never to the Golden Gate, an Ethiopian boyhood dream. He's all smiles as his big eyes tell us about Africa and his Jewish heritage. I often think of that man, envious of his joy, his memory and his eyes that have seen the earth.

Sobered, we hit the first bar we see, The Drummin' Monkey and pick a spot next to a cowboy. His face, red leather, his cheeks, more so from the booze, his gray handlebar moustache stained yellow around the lips from years of hard earned smokes in the barren flats outside town. He listens to us ramble about how some of these men find women like that, as their flowing physiques swan atop a dusty pond bar floor. Barflies, fly papered to our seats, we get caught in conversation with one another, our conclusion, "One mussn't be fat, ugly or broke. But, always persistent." The cowboy combusts with laughter and then falls back into his beer, peering contemplatively over the lip of his glass, half empty. We drink our 5 Canadian dollar cheap beer and shove off to 17th Avenue.

17th was music from every bar, permeating the warm evening air. Men and women gave the drunk cowboy hoot to strangers as they passed. I hooted back in sobriety. The street was a gridlock of SUVs and pick-ups with stickers: Chevy's donning Calvin peeing on a Ford symbol, Fords donning Calvin peeing on a Chevy symbol, Cowboy Up, Cowgirl Up, the crucifix, but not a single American flag...refreshingly. Amongst the big vehicles in the jam were even bigger vehicles, I say real monsters of machinery. Freebirding out of the open windows of school buses and out of the sunroofs of Hummer stretch-limos were Canadian women flashing and then going back inside their big shelter to hide, in embarrassment. Realizing all bars on this strip charged a cover which was exactly the same price as one of our cheap expensive beers, we walk the line of delis, pizzerias and skyscrapers back to our initial location, the Drummin' Monkey.

The bartender recognizes the Californians upon our entrance. Although, it was a stretch for us to remember him in his change of attire, a black mariachi outfit...Desperado himself. We drink down our beers with the fleeing sun, conversing with a drummer with similar taste in music.

By this time, the dance floor had opened up and we went in to scope out the crowd. I, in a drunken stupor, tried to teach a woman the fox trot. (I still believe this particular dance carries a certain charm, or a simple chivalry, when "the girl under" is woven in with the precision and suave of a bailador) But, our combined uncoordination lead to my embarrassment. I left the dance floor to hit up Desperado for another round and then went outside to smoke.

Outside, there was a wealth of people to talk to. I chose two guys that seemed nice. They turned out to be pilots...real full-fledged commercial airline pilots. They got drunk with us. One of them eventually came clean and said he had a flight at 6:00 in the morning, which had no baring on his consumption for the remainder of the night if my memory serves me right. The bar closed on us promptly at 2:00, Desperado shooing us out with his hat and we traveled on to an all night diner.

A regular cowboy mess hall, we ordered some food and continued our conversations. In the middle of talk I get up to find the bathroom. In the middle of my unsuccessful search, I'm stopped by a table of cowboys. They tell me I look like Frodo. To humor them I write, "Frodo Fucking Baggins" on a napkin and ask them where the bathroom is. They have stipulations in releasing the requested information. They wanted to wave at the table of women across the way using me as a gimmick for their success. They point out the bathroom. On my way, I stop at the table of women to explain that that table of cowboys is really a table of sad, sad hombres who don't have the cahones to get up and talk to a table of women themselves and therefore must rely on people such as myself, who ask where the washroom is, to do it for them. From afar, the women giggle and look over, the cowboys wave and smile. I guess it appeared their plan had worked.

The night came to a close walking through the cold mist, eyes fixed on Calgary Tower, sun coming up. After a few tugs from the flask we jumped into the van. That night we slept awkwardly, all together on the Ethopian's dream lit street corner, moths hugging on to the back lit signs of his illuminated spirit, a tattered trio from night one of Stampede in Calgary, Alberta sleepy headed Canada.

Midwestern Song

2008-07-23T13:16:00.000-07:00

Let the fires ravage California,
I can see chimney skies from here,
And point my finger forever northwest, home.
And see my mother on the patio with her cup and paper,
And see my father take his cup to the truck packed high with shovels, mortar jugs and brick dust,
And home,
I can see your telephone wires with black birds,
And if I point one millimeter east I can see my woman get ready for work,
And with these quiet Midwestern nights I can hear her play the folk and electric blues tracks that we used to sing together and make love to,
Underneath California cloud covers.
Oh Yes! We lied under the covers with those vibrations of Greenwich Village and Yosemite buzzing in our throats,
And lover, rattling our teeth when it got too cold and we were both buzzed about leaving there,
Oh and darling I'm sorry I drifted so so far away,
But, I thought of you so happy today,
And I'll think of you tomorrow in the same way,
The exact same way,
But, my friends and family if you could just borrow my eyes,
I'd pop 'em out and send them Fed-Ex with Styrofoam and bubble wrap and blood red bow,
I'd say look at the badlands,
Rattlesnake lands,
Mud is janitored smooth and shiny by wind but, cracked like an egg shell by panhandle heat,
Look at lightning storms!
Edison gave Zeus a whip of light bulbs and now he's yelling YA! YA! drunk and crying a storm and whipping that whip around as we all thank Edison and sad drunk Zeus for such an amazing show,
And we clap with the thunder,
And howl and whistle in applause,
And the giants keep this exact same pace when they mend their quilts of patchwork earth,
I promise you guys,
In Nebraska giants hide in the cornfields and mend quilts out of rolls of hay and cornstalks, Dirt and weeds,
Out here they mend them,
And when the giants die their children run out of the corn and cover their grandparents,
Mothers and fathers,
In their very own quilt of earth so they look like another sleepy hill on the Nebraska plains,
And the weather's fine...hot,
and I think of home frequently,
But, more frequently I think of running into the cornfields so I can make friends with a giant,
And I could play cover-up with the kids,
And if the audience never stops applauding at the sad crying Zeus swinging his whip,
I'd continue making my quilt,
And after a long day of stitching the land together I will be content with pointing toward home,
Sitting on the backs of dead giants,
And I'll warm my hands in front of the fire on a mantelpiece,
home.
A mantlepiece, home.

On the Flat and High

2008-07-23T12:39:00.000-07:00

Montana is mountains. Her freeway is a spine, her vertebrates dictate my course. She has no barriers as her form's "Crazy Mountains" high above the breastbone, America. My tires, fingers touching true topography, every curve, peak and valley of hers is a memory we share. She lays in the middle of an American bed of toasted lands and drizzling interstates, naked and vicious. Storm clouds trailing from her lips she holds fury and tranquility in the same palm, Butte. I'm tempted so I peek under her dress when she paints her ceiling blue, to only see snow peaks. She splashes white hot electric storms from her brush, cracking her sky and letting the whiteness light her bedroom. She promised me massive blue skies, a peach sunset, wet blankets of earth if I stayed with her, but with undying love I traveled on, leaving her, this state, alone, because I know there is only one like her and the dignity she holds, head sky piercing high, is still water on my rapid path and the gorgeous persistence and patience she has displayed for all my "just passing throughs" is indicative of her richness in the face of my impoverished and tragic unrest.

A Conversation on Bob Dylan

2008-07-23T11:55:00.001-07:00

I rode highway 90 from Missoula, Montana to Butte today. Bob Dylan loosening a coagulated spirit from a 3 hour sleep on the gravel side of desert mountain strip outside of town (Blue Mountain Drive). Trees swallow houses, mountains swallow trees, sky swallows mountains and I am consumed by it all. My friends are in a restless sleep while I count houses divided by miles of snowy mountains. "Bear Mountain Picnic" is playing and I listen, laughing. I start sending my thoughts to the rambling men of yester-generations. "Bob's right, Woody, Hank, Waits, Kerouac. Things are not what they seem. And it seems to me that there's too much deception involved in the trivial and innocent as well as the imperative and maleficent. Even the most respectable people rarely say what they mean and with that, there is also the malice of never doing what you say. My thoughts jump on the grand scale of things and I think of the president and every other evil-doer I can find. Yeah, I'd like to get them all on a ship, call it a picnic and have it sink." I think for a bit about how a stranger in Couer'de laine, Idaho, Tim, said that the government is building a ton of new homes on the lake for Bush's Black Water Squadron, the whole city is owned by one man. My mind goes back to the whole picnic idea. I get back to the road concluding, we live in a deceptive place in a terrifying age. The wrong people are in charge and the masses have already packed up their picnic baskets, bought their tickets, packed up their kids and jumped on the boat and they haven't figured out that ship's-a-sinkin' but it's inevitable. But, in all this negativity I am comforted in knowing that the road is honest as big sky, rain clouds, a sore back and mountains. It's so honest it can teach honesty to one who lacks truth. As lightning strikes in the distance and rain falls on our bag of clothes strapped to the top of the van, I can testify that the road is certainly no picnic, but it could certainly teach some of those bastards a thing or two.

Reflections on City Life

2008-07-23T11:31:00.001-07:00

I say to Mike, "People in Seattle seem to be extremely goal oriented." The streets are shaped like perfect grids, busses run on electric wires situated like spiders' clothes lines, webbing the entire city up, and a runner just ran into Cayla because she interfered with his electric line of direction. Here the business men hustle down the streets and new town is piled high above old town like two scoops of Rocky Road served to tourists in Pioneer Square. A man curses it all aloud, screaming to the tops of the buildings that shade his alleyway. The gist of what he is saying is everyone has it all wrong and that no one understands, minus the fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, fucker, son of a bitch, ass, fuck, fuck, fuck, raised to the third power. If he was in the proper state of mind, I could discuss my confusions with him. We would sit for coffee and a muffin or croissant and have a wonderful conversation about our frusteration with "Big City." I entertain that thought all the way to the square where there's statues of fire fighers with masks on their faces, holding a fire hose, fighting a fire. I take a seat where I would have sat with him and talked, where I can still hear him cursing this place in the distace. I realize that the vast difference between his situation and my own is that I can leave anytime I want and he can't. Then I think, what if I couldn't?

Gone in the Cascades 6-26-08

2008-07-23T10:56:00.001-07:00

Tonight I'm over 1,000 miles from home. Before me, there's a game of chess between two friends. But, home is behind me.
Out here, 90 miles south of Vancouver, B.C., 100 miles east of Seattle where we tipped our hats, departing from The Pacific, and over 1,000 miles from home, there is no sound. The radio won't pick up stations and we station ourselves in front of a fire with canned food turned gourmet by our hungry wit. Out here there are no worries. Just a vague understanding of what she's up to, how hot it is there, that everything's okay and that I'm gone.

Thoughts From a Pool Room in Seattle (Jazz)

2008-07-23T09:21:00.000-07:00

Just keep writing.
Write with fury.
Write with purpose.
Write like the word "Fuck!" howled from the 60th story balcony of a big city skyscraper.
Just keep writing and never look back.

Write like Coltrane.
"Sheets of Sound."
'Trane tracks contorted, tortuous like bent coat hangers behind you because you kept riding on and never looked back.

The saxohorn blows like the speed demons' highway interstate debates.
And your tailpipe emits a visual sound.
Pollution Jazz.

Oh! The radio's too loud.
Shooting Be-Bop to the clouds.
And the pen's out of ink.
You stink.
You haven't slept a wink in 96 hours.
It's really hard to find showers.
Wake up and smell the flowers.

There's roses in the proses.
If you just keep riding on and don't look back.

Visons of Seattle

2008-06-22T14:32:00.000-07:00

Seattle,
Where ghosts plume out of alleyways labeled Broken Promise,
Where I bask in sorrow over ended love,
Where I sit in an antique house and admire blue skies.
Where now I say, don't send my love to just one, but to everyone for I have sacrificed everything including you.

Entry on Day Eight

2008-06-22T14:12:00.000-07:00

This is day eight of a six-month journey, circumnavigating the U.S. of A. My travels have already endowed me with a type of wisdom only obtained by traveling folk. An ability to fend for one's self, living off the land and an undying passion to carry on despite the way you smell, look or feel.

I woke up today with a ranger's head poking through the broken door of my tent. He figured me a thief of a Golden Age Card which would allow me cheap camping on his grounds. With the aid of Mike, we explained that it was a Golden Access pass which we legally possessed. He moved on. After cleaning up, pumping water and repacking, we moved on as well.

Our next destination was a luxurious campsite (electricity and showers) on the bank of the Columbia River, conveniently sharing it's grounds with an active train track, symbolic of our travels. We made food and set up camp. I then ventured to the shore where I met Gretchen who discussed with me, China, The Panama Canal and the possibility of sea monsters living in the depths of what was before us. We then retired for the night in front of a friendly fire fashioned out of driftwood from the great river's edge.

Strip Club in Portland In Two Moods (DV8) 6/16/08

2008-06-22T13:58:00.000-07:00

One Mood

Dancers are lit in red and black, baring it all in their saddness. She's someone's little girl on stage. Somebody told her they loved her...yesterday. Adult show X-rated for you to enjoy. And I do, ambivalently.

Too Mood-ies

She flings her hair with a whip of the neck. The poison influences us and I tell you to your face, "headlights from the road...them'll blind you." Her panties glow a neon green in black light and her fishnets strangle the thigh like I wish I could and I'm studying the blonde composition, barsmoke and liquor as you study this piece. Oh and I'm studying like'em maddoggin' 16th Avenue and Vienna lady look-er at-ers and you believe me when I tell you, the road is long and fast.

Drunken Road Pirate Camping Anthem

2008-06-22T13:31:00.000-07:00

Arrrrrrrrr we/
sail the gravel sea/
and steal your wood/
as it be/
I keep my pen between my teeth/
Some landlocked pirates/
who we be.

So uncork that wine and make it fast/
Burn that wood and make it last/
Set up tent it's like a mast/
Some gas-guzzling pirates who we be.

We won't pay/
So get up early/
There's no time/
For morning scurvy/
So drain that whiskey/
Don't be girly/
We'll pilfer more/
So there's on worries/
And sail the gravel seas/
Some broke-ass pirates/
Whooooo weeeeee BE!

Another Day at Sea

2008-06-20T18:31:00.000-07:00

Setting sails East on Miles Wagon, heading to Volcano Hood on the Oregon seaboard. Shipmates are all suffering a bad case of 5 hour scurvy from a night of pirate drinking irresponsibility and I had sea legs, leading to my near demise, a head-first stumble over a curb and into grass.

The tent's rough sleeping as it also suffers a broken zipper, leaving my trusty companions and I as an offering to bloodthirsty deity mosquito...cold too. But, our spirits lift at the sight of warm food, uncorked wine and a whistling fire.

Since last ship entry we have abducted another sailor, Gretchen, who seems fit to brave the wild water and toils of the open sea. She will, unfortunately, have to walk the plank in ye'ol' Port-Land before we hit the rough waters of Washington.

I need a sponge bath, a stiff drink and my woman back in SR. Besides those few things, I have more than anyone could want.

Beginning Thoughts

2008-06-20T16:51:00.000-07:00

Your throat is closing. Your last breaths escape your lips, heavy, like pails of water being drawn from a well. Bystanders observe you, jovial and laughing at the trick you've pulled. But, your death continues, slowly and painfully as you fear for your life. Every moment is a powerful pound of a heart that rattles the cage it's in, just like the moments before it, but this tme things change. A voice asks you to either remain in this state of fear, eternally, or accept that your death is your own doing; at which point you escape the realm of fear and sacrifice yourself to destiny. When you accept, life appears before you, awake in your tangled bedding on the first night of your journey. You ask, "am I here yet?"

It became my belief that I had to let that one part of myself die before the road began. I had killed the side of me that was not fit to be cast into a life, unstable and unsafe. Before, the road came with no defined beginning. Was it at the point of ignition, pistons pounding and revolutions taking me, every minute farther from home? Or was it longer ago, when wheels turned in my mind, already separating me from my attachments and grounding me, in the remote destinations of my mind? But, all this questioning has no purpose now. I'm in the middle of the sea with pavement undertow, a new air above and an ever-increasing desire to soak it all in.