A Kiss Before I Leave
Leaving in a few hours for a long overdue trip to San Francisco. Looking forward to much good food, laughter and beer with my brother and friends. Before I go, here's another teaser from THE RAMBLE NOOSE, which is pouring out of my mind's carotid artery. This picks up where the last one left off...
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"I walked into the place and, like all haunts, am reproached with daggereyes for opening of the portal to the world. A moment passes and I am folded into the banter, paying the cover - a sick remark at man's expense. Soon after, but before Burt had managed to sneak away from decent wife and home, the evening lull arrived. An angel is passing, the French say. Time-stop ambivalence as I sat in the corner, reminding me of camping trips when the liquor was gone at nearby Afton. Two loons sat facing on the other side of the room, their history together relieving them of all necessity. When the flock arrives overhead, they will again be whole. Here the river tussles behind the weeds, there a Mongolian throat-singer warms up before the night's prayer, even a lion on the knoll smiling at bugs and yawning, not happy about where he is, nor wise enough to be sad. I light a cigar, which binds me to this landscape rather than disturbs it, and feel like Li Po, had he found that hole in Magic Mountain through time and space. The one who would write more on the nature of the cruel, having landed his ass smack dab in the suburbs."
. . . . . . . . . . .
"I walked into the place and, like all haunts, am reproached with daggereyes for opening of the portal to the world. A moment passes and I am folded into the banter, paying the cover - a sick remark at man's expense. Soon after, but before Burt had managed to sneak away from decent wife and home, the evening lull arrived. An angel is passing, the French say. Time-stop ambivalence as I sat in the corner, reminding me of camping trips when the liquor was gone at nearby Afton. Two loons sat facing on the other side of the room, their history together relieving them of all necessity. When the flock arrives overhead, they will again be whole. Here the river tussles behind the weeds, there a Mongolian throat-singer warms up before the night's prayer, even a lion on the knoll smiling at bugs and yawning, not happy about where he is, nor wise enough to be sad. I light a cigar, which binds me to this landscape rather than disturbs it, and feel like Li Po, had he found that hole in Magic Mountain through time and space. The one who would write more on the nature of the cruel, having landed his ass smack dab in the suburbs."