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WHERE BACK SEATS ARE SPECIAL
It's rain after snow fall,
midmorning lull about Charleston, What weather they're having. Me, I don't feel
it, not really, but we do need gas to keep going.
He's paying for our full tank,
"Do you want stamps?" "What for?" "Oh ya get glasses
and things." Things, things good for but what ails me, we.
Now he's gone again to buy a
pair of socks, I don't even need them since I'm the object, motionless, to
remain in this car looking, visualizing, spiritually feeling where we are. All
our things were thrown into the backseat of our car two nights ago. We couldn't
live with that scene in Washington.
Lights have gone on and it's
as if December ascended, electric daylight months; only we're in the tenth
month, fall colors. Yesterday. Just a few short hours ago we surrounded
ourselves with orange-pinks, a holy palette delightful for the elf
spirit-vanished-posh right to Christian white flakes.
We settled ourselves for sleep
under a crevice with trees that watched above. What supper, unfit for
vagabonds, the beans would suit some guy holed up in an A-bomb shelter. He's
already given up humanness. When we heard crinkle sounds our vision was of men,
onlookers who did not like us trespassing on their backyards, but it was snow
falling, powered by the wind. Locked in, we closed our minds and forgot it,
loving sleep until awakening to the purity and fright of being caught in the
whiteness.
Sitting. Girl in car alone
again to be shaken up by the station wagon full of women. The driver, man,
bumped me, I could have hit him; if I weren't so against contact sexless.
Wipers swinging again; Route
60, Montgomery Ward, a store so obsolete in NYC. People stand here too
though, waiting for buses with the askew arrangement for sitting. "You sit
in back man, my seat's first!" If I were waiting I'd take my usual last
seat, where I can watch unnoticed inspiring serenity.
A red light.
In white chalk: "House of
the Lord Bible Class."
Weekend
on the outside if not
too
cold. If so we will be on
the
inside everybody welcome.
Yellow paint: Blue Club Room
A fading sign: Heaven Room
Below
which little dark boys in snowsuits, watched by a man staring into Kanawaka
River, lined by trees unburdening themselves of snow.
Again in the car parked
waiting for him to return. A tapping on my window. "Thanks." An
unnoticeable dressed Negro takes the remains of our snow trip from the car roof
and walks off. He throws it, his vengeance at, no he decided not to aim it at
filled moving Lark, silver truck became the safe target. No matter how hard he
fights it will never come. Only the end sure.
I too feel exhaustion, from
watching, everything going within me, inescapable now my present excursion.
Journal page 10/61