PULL OVER AGAIN:
Pulled in directions. Sleep trashed, eyeballs sandpapered,
up with the dawn. Pack bag, forget important files, drive to
favourite cafe. Sanctuary. Park in frost, new wiperblades
glide sweet. Walk early streets a free man. Find a seat
at the back, a table for a notebook & pen. Porridge & black tea.
A warm place where the phones don’t work, I chuckle to myself,
escaped. An hour’s writing healing medicine in the company of
carcrash thoughts that slowly line up into calm, clear images
of light. Walk the streets, breath, drive. Every road blocked
by lights & holes, I chuckle to myself. Eventually arrive
at a place where the phones work & the kettle’s always hot.
Sour n sweet, Hell n Heaven, a secret place in the physical
world only. Answer questions to global publications, international
communications. Hit the mark, the spot, the deadline, on time,
right place, right name, check the mirror, who’s face is this?
Listening to Oliver Dodd’s ‘Rhea’ on Detroit Underground