| Now we come to an interesting gas station in the middle of god forsaken
hot desert nowhere. Thought sleeps on a small cot behind the
sticky counter. He sells chips and cigarettes to those who pass through
the desert and dig in the dry soil, which wettins faster than you’d
expect. In his green stripe gas station, green as fish in the desert. the
old fifties pumps, little rockets to the Moon or Leningrad. Curved and
bulging, sleek and fat little thangs. (Write right off that cliff, Louise,
write right off that cliff.) In his shit smeared bathrooms and country
western music plastic in the speakers, as the floor is plastic on the
few lonely boots that pad and clunk by. With the wheezing bellies that
accompany them. Like a dog accompanies a boy on his skateboard.
On the resonating sidewalk. Leached and yanked. This is where the
thought lives. And does he count? He may count the money in the register.
He may count the stock of Heineken and Arizona Tea. He may
count the wanderers. He may count the potato chips. Who knows if
he just counts? |