briefly, on beyond, part I
What, to be inspired, by a word or a touch on the cheek, is there a burning?
A criminal sits on the shoulder of the thin wood road, sits in the burning red dust, sits scratching at his collar, sits and shifts uncomfortably, from time to time, sways from side to side. His name is his own and his waiting. Around nightfall a powder blue truck comes down and he stands and it lets him in and it takes him away.
To have a name that's all his own, he dragged it through the mud. To have a 50-cubic-inch space that belonged only to him and not shine-peddlers or snakevine horse salesmen. To have a thin cord wrapped around his self and his hand, an unpleasurable jerkchain that let him shut it off, crank it up, at will, day or night. He dragged it through the spit and grime.
He's a criminal, though, being sideways when most of the other men line up in the church pews, market queues, an infinite expanse of lines and time. When he waited sideways he smiled so crooked that it looked straight-on. And so the little boy in the barber shop had called him a criminal, thinking it fit.
"Look man," he said, "I'm not any sort of individual," he said,"don't pin me up on your wall cuz I'll crawl onto the ceiling and stick," he said. But the long-legged blonde behind the wheel just looked over with a shy smile and twisted a luscious pink curl around her forefinger nail.
"Look, because see here, there's not anything in this world to go beyond, man. There's just spiderwebs and quantum physics and phenomenology. It's just horse and rocks. I've tried your drugs and your religion, man, I've tried it, and it doesn't go nowhere. It's a dead-end, man. You can't go out past the dead end because it's just abandoned tracks and yellow bushes. Where exactly can I go?"
And later, when they're all starred and peeking dawn, and the smell the coffee and continental breakfast. She takes out her 10-mile legs and dreams, "It's a nest of tigers up on that hill, let's" and he said "let's" and she says "let's" and she knows he will say "let's" every time she says it so the next time she simply lets it go, bunching her nose.
They don't even think about the car as they step inside, the radio is set to static, there is not a hint of UV-protection or air-conditioning. The air is already dry and hot as the powder blue truck crawls up the long brown streak, sending sparks and dust spiraling out and up behind them. He wants to scream, she's so sweet. She wants to drink, she he gives her some potion and she's in love with that void again. "Hey, should you be driving?" is not something that either of them said.
"It's perfectly unreasonable, what do they eat?" and she just slies at him, "or drink, or distract themselves with at night when the coyotes are scaring them half to death?" and she just keeps on until they round the corner at the summit of his incredulity and they're staring down into a black and orange leathery writhe.
A criminal sits on the shoulder of the thin wood road, sits in the burning red dust, sits scratching at his collar, sits and shifts uncomfortably, from time to time, sways from side to side. His name is his own and his waiting. Around nightfall a powder blue truck comes down and he stands and it lets him in and it takes him away.
To have a name that's all his own, he dragged it through the mud. To have a 50-cubic-inch space that belonged only to him and not shine-peddlers or snakevine horse salesmen. To have a thin cord wrapped around his self and his hand, an unpleasurable jerkchain that let him shut it off, crank it up, at will, day or night. He dragged it through the spit and grime.
He's a criminal, though, being sideways when most of the other men line up in the church pews, market queues, an infinite expanse of lines and time. When he waited sideways he smiled so crooked that it looked straight-on. And so the little boy in the barber shop had called him a criminal, thinking it fit.
"Look man," he said, "I'm not any sort of individual," he said,"don't pin me up on your wall cuz I'll crawl onto the ceiling and stick," he said. But the long-legged blonde behind the wheel just looked over with a shy smile and twisted a luscious pink curl around her forefinger nail.
"Look, because see here, there's not anything in this world to go beyond, man. There's just spiderwebs and quantum physics and phenomenology. It's just horse and rocks. I've tried your drugs and your religion, man, I've tried it, and it doesn't go nowhere. It's a dead-end, man. You can't go out past the dead end because it's just abandoned tracks and yellow bushes. Where exactly can I go?"
And later, when they're all starred and peeking dawn, and the smell the coffee and continental breakfast. She takes out her 10-mile legs and dreams, "It's a nest of tigers up on that hill, let's" and he said "let's" and she says "let's" and she knows he will say "let's" every time she says it so the next time she simply lets it go, bunching her nose.
They don't even think about the car as they step inside, the radio is set to static, there is not a hint of UV-protection or air-conditioning. The air is already dry and hot as the powder blue truck crawls up the long brown streak, sending sparks and dust spiraling out and up behind them. He wants to scream, she's so sweet. She wants to drink, she he gives her some potion and she's in love with that void again. "Hey, should you be driving?" is not something that either of them said.
"It's perfectly unreasonable, what do they eat?" and she just slies at him, "or drink, or distract themselves with at night when the coyotes are scaring them half to death?" and she just keeps on until they round the corner at the summit of his incredulity and they're staring down into a black and orange leathery writhe.