Poetry and prose in northern New Jersey. It’s a midnight flight, cold beer and stale peanuts, JFK airport blues, last cigarettes and NY is still brown from winter. The homecoming days, drunken nights of friends and old loves mingled with the smell of new hair combed with nicotine fingers. It’s car-stop short stop mile of hungover days and my room’s been painted. I missed you the other morning, when I was hungry for a caffeinated nonsense dream cylinder. There will be a paining of you overlaid in my memory of curling hair and the last supper sushi. The dart tips are crooked, and so is my sense of entitlement. My first trip home and all I can think about is going back home. Lots of drunken promises of visits and remembrances. And then, it’s driving back through brown-brick manhatta; I remember Allen more today than last week. Pervasive William Carlos in the air of Paterson. Then it’s one last hug and handshake, and a security check point.
According to the little map on the screen I’m somewhere over billings Montana– over white clouds, with old tom frost on my headphones and an urge for something greater– fresh air heart stop leg drop hiccuping towards the land of fir trees and angled jaw-lines. Cigarette lung treatments and a wheezing cough sure seems like swell knickknacks to take back to my friends. I got sick somewhere between the plane and wednesday. Just woke up from it with a bit of a sore back and a hunger for my new life. I started to write this blog as a post-travel narrative. There’s a bit of a feeling that NJ is officially in my rear view, and the post-travel will begin.
It’s terribly rare that anything related to the military impresses me. This is one of those rare moments.
It’s surprisingly frequent that anything related to Jesus in a dress makes me laugh. This is one of those frequent moments.