We dropped out of school, got divorced, broke with our families and ourselves and everything we’d known.
We quit our jobs, violated our leases, threw all our furniture out on the sidewalk, and hit the road.
We sat on the swings of children’s playgrounds until our toes were frostbitten, admiring the moonlight on the dewy grass, writing poetry on the wind for each other.
We went to bed early and lay awake until well past dawn recounting all the awful things we’d done to others and they to us—and laughing, blessing and absolving each other and this crazy cosmos.
We stole into museums showing reruns of old Guy Debord films to write fight foul and faster, my friend, the old world is behind you on the backs of theater seats.
The scent of gasoline still fresh on our hands, we watched the new sun rise, and spoke in hushed voices about what we should do next, thrilling in the budding consciousness of our own limitless power.
We used stolen calling card numbers to talk our teenage lovers through phone sex from telephones in the lobbies of police stations. Read the rest of this entry »
You must be logged in to post a comment.