On a train to New Orleans
a path to nowhere,
but back to business,
where John Kennedy Toole
once ruled.
hey Jerd, tap more or tap less.
I said.
his boots were making a helluva racket.
and I was trying to write for a living.
while dealing with another day and another stomach ache.
continental in style.
we worked back to back.
dissolved in theory and disgust.
far off in fields.
of our own fires.
design digs deep and dies quick.
they say.
I just want to be an American sentence.
after the meal is done.
live forever. die longer.
I am 36.
hale and unassuming.
angry yet full of love.
appalled at myself yet confident enough.
the fake wood floors.
rattle and break my beer bottles.
I am in an allotted position.
because of choices that chose me.
by Monday, I will protest.
At 115th Street, I bled benzedrine and dexedrine.
I quit, but.
the tapping came back.
this time as a typewriter.
jazz, back pain, age, and more love.
I am classically irresponsible.
pop me in to anything wrong.