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Grand damnation

I left her on the sidewalk at about 5 a.m.
The sky was blind and the skull fracture was coming on
I pointed my ride north – and crawled out of town before the lovelies rose from their graves.

I couldn’t stand the hunger anymore somewhere between there and Phoenix
I was craving a waffle, not unlike the Georgia waffle I devoured after that gig in Atlanta a few years back when I got obliterated in a sea of peaches with Liam and Noel ……
I found some blindsided roadsided diner in the desert and pulled on in out of the sun
Everyone inside the joint was dripping wet and drinking orange juice and coffee and groaning over the meaningless oddities of space and time and shopping and the Almighty voodoo dolls strung wide across the valley.
I was high with hangover and cigarette ash soul as I took my seat among the lost and frozen and the fools of love, watching as they impatiently poked at their children’s dirty smiles with napkins, all the while in deep reality wanting to toss scalding coffee into their faces and leave them behind so they can hunt down some more meth and gasoline
I saw Indians, but mostly beehived blonde bimbos, soccer mom whores never satisfied with a damn thing and I wanted to shove the silver spoons the rest of the way down their spoiled throats.

I had a pecan waffle with warm maple syrup, two cups of coffee and a side of white toast with mixed berry jam.

C’mon Gidal, we can pretend we’re hiding from the Nazis — and some girl fed me vodka while my lover slept in my eyes.

I drove a drifter to Phoenix and then he wanted to get a beer. I think he had a knife.
We found a rough ride and went inside, and to my surprise, the Cardigans were playing in there and we took our place at the front row and started to go, played whiskey puzzles and smoked a bowl and the moon was waiting in the wings when she came over to say something ridiculous, some blonde Indian hooker with a face of wax and a body of damnation, she got coyote ugly as the music blared and we just stared as she mated with the artificial stars dangling from the ceiling by fishing line, a huffing grandstand display of wild wild west all up in us and my new friend got crazy rowdy and when he went in got kicked in the jaw and flew back down to the floor and the dust – “You next young Turk!?” she spit in my direction, and I just tipped my imaginary ten-gallon hat and just said “Mam” and went back to tracing the warm wet circles on the bar with the tips of my hard fingers ………..

I left Joe Blow in the dust at sunset. I was aiming for Flagstaff for sleep and a new night. The roadway was metaphysical, enchanted, like those roadways giant in and out of the cottonwood stand cathedrals back down home in New Mexico or wherever I once was in a different time and place, a different stage of grace, that mad birthing hole of love and damnation, where sleep only came in the arms of some mad blonde, bent to the balcony, drifting wasted in a wasteland, sinking and sailing, drowning in the warmth of her blood and love, unfurling fairytales caught in the blissful wind of another moment, another moment of matches and poems afire, the eyes behind her smile, the deception in the drink, my own ravaging savages, too good at breaking beauty, wishing I could just come down from these maddening trembles, someone settle me, need my love to settle me.

The Apache Reef Motor Lodge was decked out in neon orange and green with a big white lighted cactus pointing straight up like some Herculean erection spraying cum to the stars. Remembering now, how, she hated my breed, the listless romantic, as I drug my bag through the door of room 218 in Flagstaff AZ. I was dragged out and shagged out when I flipped out behind the curtains, filled the tub with cold water and glass, snow drifting in the dark, looking for a rifle or a pencil or just something to make my peace with great Bog – in the warm, hollow night, the great highway traffic sucking in, then sucking out – I guess it was a lonely night after all.

Copyright 2011 by a.r. walther

The BEST holidays

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