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2002-06-17 || 5:19 p.m. || my traveling companion knows what i will order for breakfast || on this trip, we, he and i, are going to wear very bad wigs in the smoking sections of diners so that fellow patrons can spy on us and imagine bankrobbers and lovers on the lam and bonnie and clyde and sissy and martin. m wants matching jump suits and alter-egos, looking up at stars and drinking beer in the still-hot bed of the pick up truck. i want an audio diary of every. second. from the intake of breath of the very last sentence of our first argument on the road to his broken c sharp to insect bones* cracking on impact against glass and demon speed. i want to stay in terrible motels to smoke and write our names in pencil on the moulding above the bathroom doors. i want shoddy haircuts and tattoos of the states we cross drawn in conspicuous places. i want polaroids that capture the heat of asphalt, the drying of marrow of bones, death precariously affixed to the poles of casino parking lots. he knows this. he knows it exactly. *it has been brought to my attention that insects don't have bones. i know in my heart insects don't have bones, but for the sound, dear kelly, just imagine. my sister keeps schooling me on the arthropods. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |