Rewrites 2012

strangers for anything of value, strangled in VHS tape. Gas station buffet cuisine of the Gods! Indian casino shamans bequeath the poetry of William Blake for you to stuff inside the back of books about locomotives in the Albany Public Library.

You will scribble in wind-up notebooks the sense of remoteness a life like this as bestowed upon your soft bruised head. Whisked through the backdoors of North America, you would have it no other way. Racing all night to sleep at the bus stop before the 6:20AM to school carries you back to reality television. Unreadable winter break tales, you keep silent all the wiser. Hoary jaunts through the fog. Dual life. Blessed train stations, laundry room pile-ons, haunted families in abandoned Kentucky ice factories, hallucinations of Tim Buckley’s painted beard, a wizard carved on your chest. Gregorian pizzerias, cataclysmic bowling alleys from Blithe to Minneapolis. These are your sanctuaries now.

King Cobra becomes the blood of Christ, and Chef-Boy-R-Di is the body to break on your tongue. You’ll part the sea in Reno only to be carried into the center of the city over rocks squeezing love from muted stones.

You will know the meaning of ‘go for broke or go for dead’ because Jeff in his cynical honesty opened your eyes to a world more addictive than a skagamuffin’s fix. Why walk around with tombstones in your eyes when you can be reborn each night? Loading cog into dingy clubs, down basement stairs, empty art galleries, and Colorado queenie bars.

Baptizing yourself in murky waters swung by heavenly rope swings on covered bridges in Falmouth, Maine.

St. Grease of the stars balancing himself in chairs unconscious bucket in arms. Grazing the rail at every turn.

You will discover the pleasures of public bathrooms, waiting in parking lot lexicons, killing time with plasma department stores. Brother Andrews living polar bear, lover of my being! Birthday wishes in Austin. Trapped inside the Alamo gift shop. Spooning in the van with baphomet wings.

Sentiments captured in New Orleans on asphalt piles whizzing rocks at cans perched on boxcars. You will front-flip vomit through time fending off all-comers with nieces and 77