We rode thru wet streets until the sun came up, staining clouds pink; spent nights in diners shaking from
thick coffee like bad speed steaming in the curved white bowls of our mugs, our sad & tired reflections in
the washed out windows. I ate a lot of canned fish. On the radio, we tuned in to ridiculous hobo
stations that you could only get for a quarter of a mile in any direction, where the guy was announcing
thru some microphone he built out of a potato; and he'd play some waxy old American tune that left me
feeling like my pockets were full even tho they were mostly empty. & there was shouting and sleeping
under heavy prairie skies or next to lakes in the trunk of a car, and we did too many drugs, & there was
luv and drama, some of that drama I created myself. God, I was a foolish kid in love with the world.