Trench Coat Hallucination Six
I find myself wanting to be overcome with passion, with an urge to write furiously and let graphite and paper bits and rampant energy fly into the air like pieces of fur emerging from the ferocious cloud of a cat fight. I am too full of energy to sit and let the world pass by. I want to fling myself out upon the world and go, write a thousand words a day, have sex every evening, eat pasta with olive oil and drink plum sake from Japan. The stars have been made manifest, burning within me.
It is glorious, everything is harshly, beautifully alive. I am filled with a love for everything, for the spiders in the woods and the abusers of prisoners and the nasty freaky fish that live in the dark of the ocean and the girl Samara from The Ring who causes death. Pieces from a well-crafted puzzle, it feels like my life is slowly coming together; three and four piece segments are clicking with certainty, in counter-rhythm with my pencil scratching out a poem.
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Western Nebraska�s billowing corn fields break into farmhouse acne and rifts of irrigation streams as they rush past the tinted windows. In the minivan, a girl with pursed red-purple lips sits poised with a mechanical pencil, a well-traveled notebook balanced on legs folded above the mundane clutter. Her head is tilted and she examines the world through brown eyes, taking in the cracks in the highway�s shoulder and the big delicate sky. She ducks her head suddenly; her pencil presses to the paper with impassioned intensity.