my sister is a kindergarten teacher; i don't know how she do it.
i am not a kindergarten teacher. the closest i get to chilluns is writing about babies and my babies are always always in peril. they are like the damsel tied to the railroad track but they wear diapers and spit on themselves for fun.
if you don't know, if you haven't figured it out, i am writing a novel called Homegirl! i have written another novel called little pink babies. the only difference between the two is that in the first novel the baby survives.
that is not the only difference. i am a liar.
my pants are not on fire but my jeans got major crotch holes. they are so old and so comfortable and when i walk my neighborhood late at night who's gonna see my stuff except some raccoons, maybe an armadillo, lots of palmettos, those goddamned frogs that are always calling for the sexings and those goddamned generic big bugs that are always chirring chirring.
i walk my neighborhood late at night because the skies here are oh so fucking blue. they are so blue i want to smear them on my eyelids; they are so blue i want to take them all in my mouth and then the weight of the sky would collapse me. i walk my neighborhood late at night cos i want to scare the passed out natty light drunk frat boys. i walk my neighborhood late at night cos i'm bored. i walk after midnight cos i'm patsy fucking cline. i walk late at night cos the bullets aren't so bad then.
if anyone asks i am a gumshoe. i am down on my luck & the city's all around me.
if anyone asks me i read a novel about a gumshoe in a city where the buildings keep moving around him and the people live and the people die and the murders happen and the buildings breathe.
in out in out, the buildings breathe. they hold their breath all day but at night they come alive.
i have gone looking for this city of breathing buildings, but i can only walk so far and i get distracted by shiny objects in the road. i get distracted by truckers who've seen my stuff and want to take me to a truck stop or just the back of their cab. i get distracted ducking the bullets that come when i go looking for the buildings.
i think you may be in the breathing buildings; i think you may breathe with the buildings. i think you may hang with them in the noir rain and roll squares and tip your hat and look at the holes in your shoes and say, i should quit walking this beat.
but you can't stop cos you got to outwalk the bullets that are looking for you.
you are outwalking my bullets cos my bullets are slow and southern and confused. they've gotten into the apples that fell off the tree, the apples that've been lying underneath the blue blue skies, the apples that haven't tried to swallow the sky but have gotten drunk off that blueblueness. my bullets buzz slowly in fat fuzzy circles.
i cannot remember the name of that novel you are in with the breathing bullets and if you could help i will do my best not to write on the passed out frat boys with sharpies.
unless you want me to.
unless you want me to write your name.
unless you want me to write blue skies and apples.
unless you want me to write love.
yours walking walking,