One Hundred Thirty-Fifth Entry

Been working pretty hard (for me, anyway) and been busy besides, so I haven't had the time nor the energy to keep up with Bad Vibes. But, I finished Ed Sanders' THE FAMILY finally!! I broke that book's back! No literally, the spine on the book is super-messed up to where it's basically trash. Now that I've read two super heavy books on the subject of killing people, I'm taking a break to read Jonathan Lethem's Fortress of Solitude, recommended (and left at my house) by Will. I've been saying "yeah, yeah, I think this guy sucks, but I just want to read something stupid and light after the Family," but that's b.s. and I should come clean. I've read him before, and although I had my complaints, they mostly had to do with his self-centered essays, and now I'm reading his novel, which is supposed to be self-centered, and it's a pretty good read. I'm already a fifth of the way through it, and it's a big book. Feel free to suggest something for me to read in the future, keeping in mind I need to get back on the "Bad Vibes" train and read something regarding evil.

Here's my poem:

BAD VIBES/GIDGET COMES HOME

The van, patches of color,
cheap paint-overs and rust
lives on in hibernation-
side of the mountain road-
here is a book of acquaintances
to the act, those who watched
her but never met. Holes
struck in upholstery by who
knows what: the history
of who knows what. Squirmy,
indifferent little lonely people,
itching, convulsing to be claimed
at the crowded depot where my bags
are laid next to my seat.

The edge has gone dull. No one
told me. I can't start a fire with it
and I can't rig a phone and call
home, and this sticker won't come off.

Names of interest slip through her speech
when I don't expect. Sticker had a joke
on it-not funny now. Maybe never.
Certainly didn't go over in court,
should have worn something fancy,
said something worth remembering
now, talking to you about safe topics,
my clan's mythology clearly not panning out.
She's wearing parts of me on the outside,
showing the bloody night my clothes,
used to sit outside and wait,
in flames with a scary optimism-
shake around all night and call it
a dance, speak telepathically
(or used to) with my girl.

Don't go vacant on me now. The only thing
I still need is the future-mask made out of
my hair, up the road dragging the rope
made out of jeans torn out at the seams
and the getaway won't drive itself.