Tour #1 - Faulty Drainage

For some reason, every place we've stayed in has faulty drainage. Throughout every shower my feet have waded in a cesspool of my own body garbage, so that by the end, the cleanliness of my feet is questionable. Afterwards, I scrub the bottoms and tops of my feet clean. Sometimes I add an antiseptic. In New Orleans, we observed a neighborhood parade, a brass and wind and percussion band. Later, we were served by a transexual mexican waitress for hire, decked with large breasts and a collar that disguised her male neck. She was a great waitress. 

I've been a lonely bug in a big barren wilderness. The people are dry. They come and go. Chris Darden set up a lot in Charleston. Kendelle might not be so complicated, but more a desperate and kind soul lost in unfortunate consequences, which have nothing to do with that soul. A good one. 

In Atlanta, the doorman almost kicked me out. He claimed that planets were defined by their gravitational attraction. Only that. Magma cores had no significance. I disagreed. The theory of relativity tells us that any object pierces a unique portion of space time, a disruption: so that anyone's comb, perhaps their swimming pool pulls on a faraway nova and expands and stars and even the dying ones long ago extinct and black in black space erodes some dip in space time--- That is gravity. He disagreed. The three hundred pound islander sat up in a frenzy---he threatened to kick me out of the place. Of course, I had three Sparks in the car. Things were fine. Nevertheless, I was concerned. This large man thought anything with gravity must be orbited. Foolish. A thong panty or a bird's guano is so much a gravitational force. (Though negligible beside the rotating mass of earth and jupiter and objects floating from time and place and universe throughout time.)

And tonight, in battle with another band, a weak force. The weakest triumphed. They played late. It's a late town. 

I got a group of love letters from a girl I loved. What a woman. Then again. I read the passages steph wrote and never sent: beautiful things; she is a great writer, I never gave her that big compliment. But oh she is my love and I can't wait to return to watch a bloody movie and have decent beers and love each other once again, tenderly and light, light of being. 

Many more women will come, each will a distinct spark like they were the first ones. And all of them I will cherish in their singular noise, their air of that night.

I can love all of them, but none like Kelly, who anywhere will be her beautiful self, believing, at least to me. 

And the lady in New York, a columbia woman, good and right like clean soil, the heat that I need and I want. I can't wait. My greensboro Woman.