“…For when men are wide awake and dreaming their powers of communication (with one another and with the spirit that moves all men) will be so enhanced as to make writing seem like the harsh and raucous squawks of an idiot.”
In the backseat, shirtless, shoeless, pantsless, balls smelling like fuckn rotten eggs, jerking dancily to Ah-Huh’s Take On Me snaking through the sunset crags of mountains, with HOLY graffitied onto windows with windowdust. Today I woke at 6:30 hugging a skinny blonde-haired anarchist (I presume) girl with a radiant face next to a window on the 2nd floor of Catalyst, an anarchist infoshop, with a mildly splitting headache. Yesterday we played the raven, a Prescott, AZ, café with gorgeous expensive salads and gorgeous expensive stouts and gorgeous moderately priced tattoo art decking the walls. The show at its peak was an imitation of this many-colored sunset I’m staring at that renders me unable to write. There was a front row of people dancing, one of our neighbor’s homeboys said we’d given him an excuse to buy a motorcycle so he could cruise down the beautiful northern AZ painted desert just to see us play and not pay his beer tab. Afterwords, there were fire twirlers in the parkinglot and a slew of us spilling onto the sidewalk, soaking in being merry and making plans to head down to Catalyst. Bottles of Whiskey, 40s, and raspberry beer were bought, a circle was made on the lawn of Catylst in the pitch-perfect desert still night tinged with cool of Prescott and instruments were busted out, we found the sudden magic of this old crow medicine show song
Rawk me mamma like a wagon wheel/ Rawk me mama any way ya feel/ Heeeyyy mama rock me.
Again, things utterly intransmitable to the page. I fear that, like those certain sunsets everyone acknowledges but rarely mentions, to describe the show would be to descend to the raucous squawks of an idiot. I think of Whitman’s ecstacis, Ginsberg’s Holys! and Miller’s awake-dream state and the whole ripeness of certain moments, I could just bite into and spurt the juice all over the Western half of this countryside, things I doubted even existed. Now the morning after the fact and a couple days after the fact was just a whiskey-orange glow of forreal love. I have fallen in love many times tho my lover is on another continent and now I really feel like a sap. I woke up with this beautiful yellow-haired girl, sunlight-tinged faces, guessing nothing’d happened (in that teenage sense of sex-terms) as I was too drunk, to fuck (as Jello Biafra says) now these visions of Becca conquer my mind.
Parts of this drive, when I’m laying against the back window, I close my eyes and draw her in like a slow breath. That she’s on another continent is no bother, we will meet soon in Misery, where Miss, we will live out lyrics of certain Elliott Smith songs, I’ll drink all my room-mates Johnny Walker Red, trying to forget you and yr obvious self-loathing, finishing my third chap-book, trying to steal the ectasis for ourselves again maybe, while the world spins dizzy slow motion tapestries round us and perhaps we’ll cut through the web, I dunno, really though, we didn’t. Love met me the way I used to meet other graffiti writers, in the darkness, drunk, the city rumbling beside us. Fancy seeing her in sober daylight then, in the suburbs, that living tissue, that pretty lowghost. We both in the end, despised reality so much we couldn’t deal with each other if that meant finally giving in to it.