Early December Blues

No beer
No cigs
No buzz
On edge.

Sitting in a hotel room in the south of Puget Sound.

Do I turn to books again for the third night?

I've read 500 pages in the last two days. finish one book, feel empty, start another.

I don't feel as if I have a choice, it's compelling.

When will it end? Do I want it to, I think not..........

It's an adequate distraction when you're trying to keep yourself healthier.
(and by healthier I mean I'm not having any fun)
Putting words on a screen or on paper always seems to help some.

Mind
Races
Non-Numbed brain thinks too much
sometimes not enough
No OCD trappings to fall back on

This all feels like something someone other than myself would write.
I hardly recognize sober me when I'm traveling.

Maybe Kerouac would understand better my predicament(thanks Angels!)

Thompson would never get it

Burroughs would laugh

dylan would just write a song.

Later on me amigos

Thoughts Untold........

Friend,
Lover.
So many words in a very small space.
A whole untold story, for only us to hear.

So many years,
So much time.

We ended up here.

We never thought it would..........

Life in Liquid Sunshine.

This is the first time in Eight months that I have needed to use rain gear to get my job done.

For these last eight months I have worked in climates far more condusive to my line of work. But this is not the reason that I write tonight...................

Grey Skies, Newsprint touched with white-out and blue paint.
The permanent color of Puget Sound.
Portland looks like Palm Springs by comparison.
Keep in mind that I am NOT complaining, just stating the obvious.

I feel at home in this dreary world, I love the overcast skies of the northwest.
I never have to squint my eyes here, not to mention the greatly reduced risk of skin cancer.
How can you get cancer when you can't get a tan.

I've never seen Mt. Rainier, Kind of surprising when you stop to consider the length of time that I've spent in and around Seattle.
I think that the City doesn't want me here.

I think that I'll let it have what it wants.

Bad Monkeys.

No sandstorms, no wind, just the beautiful bay breeze whipping across my face.

A lot has passed, dear reader, since i last graced you with my presence. Too much time that I should have been putting pen to paper................................

Since last we talked I have covered no less than 7500 miles of these american roads, and it still all leads me to the same conclusion. We as a country are incredibly small. We have no clue about our purpose in this world, and we do not care to. The callousness of our countrymen is readily apparent in everyone that I encounter in my travels. I always hope that my wanderings will make this world seems a bigger, more inviting place, but they do not.

Disregard. The word I most often use to descibe the actions of the other residents of terra firma.

I don't much care if this doesn't make a lot of sense, it is what it is.

B.M.

Almost Home.

I have traveled the better part of one-thousand miles in the last 2 days.
Over the past two weeks I have traveled nearly twenty-five-hundred miles.

It all makes this country seem very small.
Knowing that a few hundred dollars in diesel can take you that far from home.
I brought home with me though, in the form of a blue shirt that carries the rain with it.
The rain followed me through Idaho, Utah, Colorado, Wyoming, and back through Idaho again.
These are some of the driest states in N.A. and Portland was there in the form of raindrops the whole time.

Thank you Portland, for tagging along. We all needed you

Two pitchers of Budwiser!

Toothless locals hunker down over their $ pints of miller.
I Imagine myself to be not unlike them at all.
One pitcher down with a co-worker
One pitcher down with a traveling salesman
named Randy.

Silly pool and prose in a dive bar in Small-Town Colorado.
The Oregon of the Rockies.
No real appriciation for a good pint of beer amoung the regulars here,
just the sappy, wasted, melancholy sweetness of a pint of domestic lager.
A lager born of a life wasted.

Now I do love a good lager or pilsner, they scream refreshment on a day with
100% Humidity
and the mercury holding steady at 96 degrees.
But I can tell that this lager means something else to them, this lager bleeds malcontent.
this lager means Escape.
this lager means trudging through the same
Day-in-day-out of
life in a corn field.
Children you didn't want or plan for
They probably feel the same way about their you.

Simplicity.
Life is simple when you don't consider your options

Sometimes i feel like i never looked at my options either,
but than again,
I don't live in Small-Town America.

Similarly, does my distain for myself run over onto the way I feel about them.
they don't know another way, they never did.
They simply keep on going with what they know.

It's easy to judge, especially after Two pitchers of Budwiser.

Buenas Noches

Cicadas, all the sound of nitrous with none of the fun.

Tiny helicopters,
Two inch weed wackers,
Insectile tibetan throat singers.

I used to hear these noises,
poised
over a can of ready-whip.

Now,
from a Hundred-foot Cottonwood
these noises drone down.
Reminding me that i still have some gray-matter to spare.

Now where's that can.............

Travel makes you Love and Hate everyone all at the same time...

I'm in Colorado right at the moment.........


Not a pleasure trip to be sure of it, but somehow it still manages to feel almost, but not quite, entirely unlike a vacation. I'll be in Texas next month. Running a straight line from Dallas to Mission over the course of three weeks, catering to the needs of a more priviledged, and sometimes classless bunch of Lone-Star Staters.


I HATE the Midwest, because there is no scenery, because everyone wants to escape yet is so brain-addled and afraid that they never do anything about it. There is something disconcerting about a view of your surroundings with no Background. The earth just falls away at the Horizon, it's no wonder they think that there is no escape...........there is nowhere to run. The world ends ten miles from your front door, and that is that.

They call the Midwest, "The Heartland" because the Brain isn't there.