What is the past?

my art

Nothing. I really don’t know what I really think about any of this. Finding, and the act of finding, is nonsense. What do you ever think you’ll find other than more life, and I never, it’s just, I don’t know; I don’t think I’ll ever have a clue.

I drove home every morning before her parents woke up. They never knew that I was even there. Like I said, they hated me, and they used such words as worthless and never.

They said that damn boy would never be worth anything at all. They told her to never see me again, and that’s why I had to sneak over to her house and climb through her window, and he’s a rebel, a rebel without a clue they told her.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about any of this. It happened so long ago. She’s married, well she was, divorced now, and I saw a picture of her baby. I felt better about the whole thing, because damn, I’m glad I never had a child with that woman.

But who cares, I don’t even know if this should be in the book, and furthermore, what it has to do with anything that you’ve already read. Does it push the narration further along, well that’s up to you. Still…

I listened to music, and loudly. Drove cars into the ground, and quickly. NO! That’s where I was. My past. My past has turned into my art and I’m back, back where it all started, and I’m walking around in one of the most beautiful cemeteries in town. It’s raining. The Trees keep me dry. I love that sound.

I light a marijuana cigarette and think, what’s the point of any of this? All of this money, and there’s big money to be made with the exportation of coffins in some states. Making money from the dead- nonsense- and I don’t know, that’s something a society should never allow, but I’m not in charge, so let’s move on.

 The soft rain stopped, I saw a cloud that appeared to be a chicken chasing something, and as I puff and touch the tips of my fingers against blades of grass combing the earth the joint burns out. I lean back against a huge willow trunk, falling into a daze looking at this bird that doesn’t seem to care that it’s chirping away and just hopping from gravestone to gravestone, in a place that is full of dead people, but then again, I don’t care either. What is it that they say again? Something like birds of the same feather flock together? Ha! Never mind…

Come to think about it, I’ve always felt safe in graveyards, and really, if you think about it, you’re always in one.

sun was out

chicken

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