June 12, 2009

I can't sleep, so I drive. My gas tank is nearing empty, evident in the way the meter's needle hovers so near red line. But I still drive.



(It's different when you live alone. You have no one to say goodbye to or come home to. No one to send your future coordinates to before departing.



I don't really live alone. I only pretend to. Kind of like everyone else. "I live alone." Hah!)



Catch my drift?



And I come back to this poem by Amiri Baraka, also known as LeRoi Jones. Its formal merit is debatable, but I still dig dig dig like all good Beat lovers should: with a whole lot of appreciation folded into a few tablespoons of whipped skeptical analysis.



-------------------------------------------------------
Amiri Baraka (LeRoi Jones)
"Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note
(For Kellie Jones, Born 16 May 1959)"

Lately, I've become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelops me
Each time I go out to walke the dog.
Or the broad-edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for the bus...

Things have come to that.

And now, each night I count the stars,
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.

Nobody sings anymore.

And then last night,
I tiptoed up
To my daughter's room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there...

Only she on her knees, peeking into


Her own clasped hands.

June 8, 2009

Perhaps solitude and quiet, ukulele strumming and sleeping late are to be my grand achievements for this summer.