It Always Pours on a Road Trip

This one comes straight out of Dodge.

I am writing about Dodge, now. There is on the le road, and there is off. The le road. People have to choose, and that is the way in. Into what. That downpour — Motel Find Me Find Me — but why. What if we don’t want to be found anywhere near that drool, fully half of America is invisible. We know all of them are naked and probably from the South. We don’t see them. We don’t hear them. There is no Grand Dragon. But we know what they want. No one has to believe me. I am not here to sell you anything. You are smarter than that. There is always hope. The sky itself lights up with blue. A lot of people believe in vodoo, too.

I kinda do. But it’s situational. Toussaint wanted to unload some Bikes and Wash-And-Go. I am not driving the bike. My bones have all been rewired. Voodoo ghost bones of moondust and pool halls. There are real pool halls and there are pool halls where at any time, dissent might strike us down. I’m not the criminal I am painted to be according to the street. Get off the street. Get off the Internet.

Pool Cues Are Not Weapons. Too many people want to break my bones. Toussaint’s Temple met me at Motel Find Me Find me and the he he. The sky itself lights up with an electric blue. All wet and tired out in the sweat and glue, Toussaint was so no gay stuff while working. It was not a caveat. It was a focus. “What are they willing to pay. This would be a Big Girl Rush. A lot of risk.”

Why do you think we do it.

To write about it.

To film it.

To breathe it in.

To let it put its tongue down your throat. We are already designing robots that as sex workers, it’s a data scrape. Rough term. I did not invent it. What we need are paradigms that mimic the sexual behaviors of homo sapiens. More data for the data base which is a black hole thundering its way across the universe of dissent. To breathe it in. To fill your lungs with thieves.

The real Dodge is kinda sad. Let us pretend. It isn’t. But we know it is. Babushka’s Bitching BBQ. Attorney at Law. Next to Babushkas. I am listening to two pool table  boys discussing the aquifer and pussy is not what it used to be. Wrong apartment. Wrong town. I’ll have another one. Good boy.

I paid for their drinks. Just keep the bourbon coming. Old Red Eyes in his Tony Lama cowboy boots. Straight from the slaughter house.

Most people work there. You bring that camera along with me, and I can get you into the beating heart of it. I do not know who said that, but I suggested we go out to the parking lot for some air what air.

I know nothing. I saw nothing. But if I were you, I would check that Ogallala Aquifer. Science fiction catches up with life, and you all know fiction is is a grits box. Exactly, how high are those lead levels. I know. But you don’t. Reality is the brierpatch. It’s raining bullfrogs. I am wondering if New Orleans is still there. — tim barrus