Red Dope Make You Fall in Love with Peasants
Wine enters through the mouth,
Love, the eyes.
I raise the glass to my mouth,
I look at you,
- William Butler Yeats
Between me and you, sometimes I take a little night spin on my Mongoose around this country-ass neighborhood where I live. It’s peaceful, this kind of floating around the edges of common decency. I get so tired of being a stiff. I get so bored with being okay enough in the good Christian eyes of the people in charge. Down deep, I seek redemption from this savage needy world that has taken so much from me/ denied me stuff I surely must have deserved.
Plus, I like seeing the people in their homes when they can’t see me.
It reminds me of model train scenes. All those little houses and barns and train stations down there in the valley while I’m up here on a cloud (like God!). What a gas. What a kick. Down here on the Earth night lanes, it feels privately illuminating for me. My heart races. My hands quiver. I sense my blood getting younger and my years extending into the long-off future just a bit as I edge my all black BMX away from the streetlamp light. It feels creepy from the darkness of the 9pm streets, sure. But it also feels exhilarating.
Watching their front windows from down by the curb.
Look at me out there: peering undetected into their MeTime. Each of them living out their long hard day in the privacy of their homes… with Weird Serge from up the block.
Pfff. Whatever. I mean them no harm! I’m just rolling out into the evening looking for inspirado. I am a writer you know. I mean, I have a my own blog. Or a Substack or whatever you want to call it. No, no, it’s true, I don’t actually have any books published, but why is that everything? I’m American Writer as FUCK! I post that real rambling loquacious shit on Facebook sometimes/ long stuff/ “essays” I call them. Some people read them. Or they say they do. I know they probably didn’t read it all, but still.
That’s a writer too, ain’t it?
Who cares at this point. I’ll be 51 in December. I can see the end. It’s pitch black and there is no heaven and there will be dreaming but it will be very, very unusual. I tried the writing thing. I got off on it at least. Maybe that’s a writer after all.
Anyway, people are weird.
I see it from the road in the dark.
PeepingJohnnyCash. (He must have, no?)
I see the people and the people are weird. Beautiful, but weird. Beautiful because they embody the cliched dynamics of the Evening TVers. Plump/ yawning/ not really sexy at all/ fucking kids everywhere you look/ or pets/ fucking fat dogs barking at me from the high ridge of the couch back in the window/ fat fucking old whiteface beagle mix shit-for-brains who they love so much. She pisses crap out her ass on the rug and they still love her unconditionally. You can’t shake these people/ these masses. They can take hammers to the knee all day long. They dine on meats and they drink Mountain Dew and water with fifty ice cubes in it.