honky tonk blues

My escapist daydream is the south. A road trip in a VW convertible. It’s the middle of summer. Being outside is like breathing in a damp washcloth. I always have a sweaty shine about me. I only wear jeans and t-shirts. I stay in cheap hotels and steal the little shampoos. I eat breakfast in small town diners where the waitresses all call me “Sugar.” I look skinny and innocent. I am neither. I go to dive bars and drink beer with truck drivers and watch them try to pick up big haired blondes. I talk to strangers and sleep on people’s floors. I make eyes at the local boys and let their sleepy drawls talk me into most anything. I take polaroids of them, naked with mussed hair. I steal magnolia blooms from the front yards of fancy houses. I pick up hitchhikers and make them read me their journals in lieu of gas money. I smoke pot and do LSD with art school drop outs at back yard BBQs. I hang out in record stores and get myself on the guest list. I steal bread from well-lit gas stations to feed to birds. I smoke too much. I always go in the wrong direction. I never buy a map. I write about boys and music and how there are some parts of the south untouched by time. I listen to Hank Williams Sr. and the local oldies stations and The Replacements. I take pictures of trees that are so pretty they seem like paintings. I send them to friends via 24 hour Kinko’s. I spend days upon days wandering around New Orleans. I trick myself into thinking I’ll write a book one day. I never go home.