Listening to weird ones watering their lawns in the middle of the night. Watching Bogart shooting Edward G. Robinson in the Keys, on a black and white screen. So many things need doing, even at this late hour. Go outside and pull all the pay phone receivers in town off the hook, for instance. And writing up a long list, beginning with the word: travelogue. Made it as far as the back porch, where clouds rolled through the nightscape like a freshly painted Dali background. All I know is its no time to remove my hat. I dream of catching a late bus to the Everglades and sleeping well – curled and restlessly dreaming inside a ten-dollar thrift store jacket made in Italy. Feeling my mind moving with the arc of the sun, tracing a skull-path known only to me. Fissures are forming in the Ice Age of my heart. The Third Eye wakes up to survey all, blinking off centuries of dust.
Night Bus to the Everglades