"Was that wrong?"
"If that was wrong, then I always want to be wrong. Never leave again."
"No, I shall never leave again."
"I’m going to go get us some wine."
"But, I’m an addict, it could lead to… heroin all over again…"
"It’ll be fine."
"Ok. Are you sure that’s a good idea?"
Watching The Spoils of Babylon to lull myself to sleep, can’t believe how good Episode 3 is.
I hit the road with only my thumb and a beat up old Olivetti Typewriter
I didn’t know what I was looking for
God, love, death, kicks
I knew I needed to go and never stop going
My head bent to the railroad earth
I wandered forth into the electric negro dawn
Cold water flats and boxcars booming through cities
Cleveland, Davenport, Denver, and the sound of mad jazz piercing through back alleys and flophouses
New adventures and miles between desire and hope
Desire and hope spread out like one long ribbon across the land, engines into the madness
Charlie Parker with his “doo doo tu roo”
Miles and Dizz
Old Al Bevins cracked his skull on the Wabash El in cold downtown Chicago
Quivering like a madman, laughing under the noise and the clang of all that American music
Fixing and shooting in gloom shadows, like innocent angels in supplication
Wither and hither I went, like a nomad lost on the desert of no self.
A moving dynamo slipping through the fog.
Always, “Hey, man, go!” and “Where’s it at?”
And too often, the search for love in loveless love dens where loveless girls not even acquainted with love or Buddha or Karl Marx or Jung leave love behind for kicks and commerce
One night the sad old moon hung over the Golden Gate Bridge like Dick Powell in some Hollywood musical
I was out in the dark bay mist, down in Sausalito on Big Jim Lardner’s boat, Dexter Gordon wailing on the radio
When moon-faced Dick Powell opened up to me and asked me if I knew who I was was, really knew the essential soul within
Dick Powell, I’ll always see your pictures for that.