Monday, June 29, 2009


Perhaps it's been growing, inch by inch this entire trip. The wheels of the Greyhound bus used to grind into the highway like a evangelical minister into that plush purple pulpit carpet; full of sweaty reverence and fist pounding passion. Now, they just grind like knuckles into my back.

I was bent over a toilet somewhere between Montana and Wyoming when I split in half. That's what I'll tell them if they come looking for a skinny girl with a backpack. The last time I saw her she was taping up her hiking boot as I was putting on a pair of folded jeans. She was scrawling poetry on the wall as I was brushing my teeth. She never had time for hygene. Too busy smoking borrowed butts and running around bus station dumpsters with maniacs.

She removed herself from me gently, and is still half there. The ratty poetry books, long conversations, wild eyes-- still there.

I've just traded in her gangly arms for hips,
her engine blood for roots.

I pull long, white, fresh ciggerettes from my own pack now, and smoke them like a Woman.

1 comment:

  1. the tadpoles call it meta meta metamorphosis..... the mind bending, blowing, altering state of post-festival......