courtesy of Virgin Media
Dear Carolyn,
Woke up today at noon. Read 20 pages of Hell’s Angels. Resolved to die by riding naked on motorcycle into the sick yellow sun.
Autumn drifts into Nevada’s tired eyes. Everything is freezing out its rawer parts. I am not looking forward to winter. My throat already feels afflicted by a permanent salt at its base. It will erupt and I will not leave the room. Sorry if this impedes future visits.
I got sick yesterday when I saw VH1 cobbled together yet another top 100 list. This one is probably racist to boot. There will come a day when hip-hop will be legitimized as an art form but it will not be when the lone abomination of the otherwise holy Raising Hell reigns over “The” fucking “Message,” Steven Tyler and Joe Perry spilling their cocaine all over Run D.M.C.’s Adidas, none emerging clean, both parties blistered and sick forevermore. Within, their bones must weep.
I’ve also been listening to Dusty In Memphis, which goes well with my dipping into sweaters and descending into the comforting ennui of the age.
