REINFORCING THE COUNT
18. REINFORCING THE COUNT:
We were reinforcing the count just by going nowhere - the Chevy was parked and just like some Kerouac Hudson it was still hot to the touch - running haphazard after a jaunt twice across he country some continental wheeze some omni-blubbering fusillade of direction and speed : we'd been up for three days balancing on a string and strung-out too with coffees and everything else known to mankind loose on the floor in some wiry space-capsule of anarchic still-weightless time and things floating about windows open windows closed it was all the same - the crank of the handle the wide-eyed doe of shame and fun mixed : Oklahoma and Kansas both were a drag with William Burroughs waving back as we left his shack and nearing Kelthorn or turning from Rudge there was always that farmer's daughter or some fictitious cop waving papers in the air - three days in a row with only corn flakes in our lap : 'where'd you put the dimehouse Joe?' (I'd heard the question but couldn't find the reply) 'I can't tell you right now because I'm running for the steeple' - that was all I was able to say and everywhere the water-bag hung as it was strapped to the grill of the pick-up truck and one morning before dawn I heard the garbage-men out on the street looking at the shitty old blue truck with California plates and a desert water-bag strapped to the grill and I heard the one guy say : 'Henry get a load of this - some desert caravan piece of shit truck that's ended up right in our neighborhood and I wonder is it garbage or not ? are we supposed to pick it up?' and I guess where they came from that was looked at as high humor a real laugh-line a studied irony a bafflement and paradox a philosophical question for the ages but all I wanted to say (if only I could get myself up) was 'shut up you're stupid mouth and both be on your way.'
We were reinforcing the count just by going nowhere - the Chevy was parked and just like some Kerouac Hudson it was still hot to the touch - running haphazard after a jaunt twice across he country some continental wheeze some omni-blubbering fusillade of direction and speed : we'd been up for three days balancing on a string and strung-out too with coffees and everything else known to mankind loose on the floor in some wiry space-capsule of anarchic still-weightless time and things floating about windows open windows closed it was all the same - the crank of the handle the wide-eyed doe of shame and fun mixed : Oklahoma and Kansas both were a drag with William Burroughs waving back as we left his shack and nearing Kelthorn or turning from Rudge there was always that farmer's daughter or some fictitious cop waving papers in the air - three days in a row with only corn flakes in our lap : 'where'd you put the dimehouse Joe?' (I'd heard the question but couldn't find the reply) 'I can't tell you right now because I'm running for the steeple' - that was all I was able to say and everywhere the water-bag hung as it was strapped to the grill of the pick-up truck and one morning before dawn I heard the garbage-men out on the street looking at the shitty old blue truck with California plates and a desert water-bag strapped to the grill and I heard the one guy say : 'Henry get a load of this - some desert caravan piece of shit truck that's ended up right in our neighborhood and I wonder is it garbage or not ? are we supposed to pick it up?' and I guess where they came from that was looked at as high humor a real laugh-line a studied irony a bafflement and paradox a philosophical question for the ages but all I wanted to say (if only I could get myself up) was 'shut up you're stupid mouth and both be on your way.'
posted by gary j. introne at 5:52 AM
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