I'm hysteria in black suspenders, jittering so fast and mad I can barely hold onto my pen, locked out of Jackson's house on Missouri Ave. in a manner that perturbs me on the tail-end of a morning already heavy with bad magic symbolism. Starving, and if I had a can opener I'd open a gracious can of black beans and eat 'em cold with my fingers or just suck 'em down like a beetle milkshake. Instead I lie on the porch, using my stuffsack (stuffed with sleeping bag, two pairs of boots) as a pillow and my feet propped on a wooden folding chair and watch hysteric as birds flit across my field of vision, except for the blackhead that I can just see on my nose in my periphery. I try unsuccessfully to pop it out in Jackson's rearview, instead turn and ponder my sad belongings piled next to car, ready to go go go to Tennessee in their stained knapsacks, battered guitar cases, and duct-taped boxes of books and hats. And despite how wrecked they all look they're obviously prepared. And despite my grooming I myself am emphatically not.
I'll write 'til 9, just 13 more minutes (or 14, 2 times 7, a doubled magic numeral, just as 13), and then I'll bang on doors windows cellphones or just howl and crow on the backporch, like that asshole rooster, all sleep-deprived beady eyes and twitching headache.
Why is everything so green?
wallet w/ gas money and no more
white handkerchief for snot, sweat, and other secretions
Nokia flip-phone, for use in desperation and/or romance
lipbalm, not vegan
guitar capo, the screwing kind that bruises my fingertips
2 rocks with fossils, stolen from Panther Creek
.73 mm Dunlop nylon guitar pick
illegible notes to myself, taken down upon take-out tickets from Bambino's Ital. Cafe
green Sharpie marker, twin-tipped
5 mg Abilify tablet in cigarette cellophane
old man with cane
robin staring at me with adorable curiosity
broken porch swing
white Ford Tempo, 2-door
empty jar, dirty
crushed pack of Camel Filters