driving due west
at day's end,
the sun too low for visors,
an angry sun,
flaring in one's sunglasses.
the interminable tick-tocks
it takes for the sun to drop
down behind the mountains.
oh, how one wishes
the sun would disappear,
even though, having driven all day,
there's something demoralizing
about knowing you require a couple
more hours of dark drive time
before pulling into a motel.
such a big country,
so much West remains.
the setting sun fires the mountain's Yang-side to max contrast.
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There was an explorer named Christopher Columbus who entered the New World to fanfare of trumpets. He thought the Bahamans were Hindu Brahmins. His map wasn't so good as his compass.
Fred. Fred the dinosaur. He was one of those long-necked, humpy-backed, vegan models.
A long time ago,
I listened to the audiobook of
Kerouac's "On the Road."
In that format,
I became aware of how often
Kerouac used the word
"rickety."
Almost as aware as I became
of how often Twain uses
the N-word in Huck Finn
when I unwisely listened to
that audiobook while driving
through downtown Atlanta
with my windows rolled down.
I'm now reading Hunter Thompson's
"Kingdom of Fear," and I've become
aware that Thompson had a love
of the word "gibberish" almost on par
with Kerouac's love of "rickety."
And I think about how much beautiful
rickety gibberish I've read from those
authors, and what a fine
thing it is if one can write
rickety gibberish that stands up
under its own weight.
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