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.



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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.