GOING BACK (segment from "The Ocean in Illinois," 1972)

JERRY AND BILL

Toward the taco redundancy of theft, we are sleazo inputs*, two months after Denver and everything, let us not waste any time, is purple. Her breasts were not small enough to be interesting, and she lay there like this was THE EX-PEER-E-ENCE and for one hour the record played on. I knew, wanting to gobble her hips in bellyflops, that leaving Denver would be a change.

A Solid Gold Cock, when not erect, sags on harmoniously with adjacent testicles ringing lost chords to sunrise. We biked out in late afternoon. Here and there I was beginning to see moments of loss, but for the most I was not aware of leaving any more than shared moments, and they are left behind regardless. Scenery, drudgery of Kansas, passing clouds and traffic, filled me. Mostly trucks looking for their homes wherever they were, mostly finding the road again. Screaming engines. We couldn't say much, the wind. There were a lot of stops for gas.

Getting back to where we were evicted, country again. It was fresh.




Dear Bill,

I flunked haircut. Middle america has me in its long grasp, after lassoing the west in my mind, I returned to these heartlands, our home, hoping to find -- well, what? what did I expect? I suppose the status of alien cowboy I enjoyed out there. But no, this was familiar country. I didn't have a chance. I'm still here but beaten. And worse, alone. No one to bitch, pardon my lip, shoot it over with, and baby, that's COWBOY.

I have to make a story here. You're conquering the east now (no small task) and best of luck. I feel however, that Illinois will eventually suck into her again. Actually I hope so. Shit.

So, what am I doing? And what have I done to deserve to be progressing to Phase Two of doing? Or could it all still be beginning? After the farms folded, I faded into the dreams of man. If anyone, he was a master magician, an earthly centering. I somehow fear to even write this. I couldn't speak his name. Living with him, he began to take on a light of having always been, of being truly timeless, the passing stranger recycling the dreams of man in a bead game that he had been given to call his own.

I've tried before to write of the Indiana days, but the subjectivity and unreasonable events that occurred never seemed palatable on paper. Days would fluctuate between the utter physicality of surroundings and the illusion of matter. Unexplainable (?), the oddly dressed south side community walked in light that knew the patterns of mind and they righteously played within that light.

The outcome of the Indiana triad, Jerry, Be, and myself, ended oddly. Reunited in Venice, California, well, we seemed people together again, but actually it was a breaking point. The fruits have not always been pleasant...