I'd like to propose a toast.

To the girl in the deli right by my house who had me stammering over my order because of the simple way she smirked and smiled while she wrote down on a pad, so eloquently, so full of passion - md. turkey w/let, tom, prov n mayo.

Ah it made my hour.

I shall return to see if we'll still have that intensity I just described. I probably won't do it for a week or two, to keep her guessing of course. I'll eventually learn her name. Her Dad will joke with me about using cell phones. Then, after about three months, I'll say let's cut the ham sandwich girl, and like Bruce Springsteen in Asbury Park I'll say, "Tie up your apron bebe. You're coming with me."

Then she'll say something about how her favorite book is something J.K. Rowling wrote, and I'll sigh. We'll do it for maybe three months, but that one nagging notion will be present with every ass grab, every too loud moan, every time she says, please, can we shut off the lights.

But you're beautiful bebe and I's wants to see dat.

Nah, I don't think so.

Well okay.

It'll come to pass that I loved her immensely whilst she made sandwiches. But even I am willing to prolong what I understand to be the potential for disaster.

There's always subway now isn't there.

So I did the movie thing. They need better questions, but . . .

Looks like I'd be in Fight Club too.

There's a fucking shocker, huh.

Well naked people, there you go. . .

This is after I just pummeled the shit out of a 29 year old marketing manager who once called me "Big Guy" in a saftey meeting.

And please don't use that gate into my psyche as an opportunity to piss me off.

I thank you.

There's an air of madness in the air.

Let's say air a few more times, hmm . . .

I walk down to the Pink to find Paul and a cheesburger, both offer benefits to my conversation with a newcastle. I get a smoke and a desire to head to Mother's which besides the Manhattan's which I know you loved, the atmosphere wreaked of Ertha Kitt. Faherty's it is and Ween awaits as it always does. We picked the wrong song, just so's you know, but fuck it. Two in the morning there's a drink in my hand, dirty martini. By the way, I'm excited at the potential (here he goes again) of the elusive meetings betwixt myself and a glass of Tanqueray. Oh yes, and you. You were there, I should remind you of that.
So I get my dog and return whilst normals sleep. In my craft or sullen art, oh wait Thomas said that. I say, what a beautiful night and right now Josie's on a vacation far away, (dat's for Emily, one day to meet on a porch not so far away) . . .

If anyone has any idea what I'm talking about . . . good. If not, PAY ATTENTION.

Next time I mean . . .

Do it all tomorrow, once again my friend.

ha.

I awoke at 5:08 to a beautiful woman dimly lit by the vague Rhode Island sunrise peaking through an orange bedsheet hung from nails above a window.

I lied.

The things holding the would be curtain weren't nails but a form of hook I'll never find in any Home Depot. But that's not what disturbed me. I fell in love this weekend. I fell in love with romance, passion and the inevitable conversation telling me that I have to go, she has to stay, it won't work, but in the meantime, let me carry you to your room only to not think and just do for the remainder of the night until we wake at 5:08.

I rode on my motorcycle through 15 different climates in three states. I fell asleep in middle of the Service station parking lot sprawled out on top of my bike, mouth open, probably half erect, and thinking of young girls with dresses that button from the front.

I would make it home eventually. Eventually I say because the time effaced itself from my life. I now sit here, thinking of Newport and banal conversations about how things could be and wonder if I should give it any more effort.

Not could be, were, I mean. What things are, well, she's not here, but then, even when I'm there, she never truly is. But then . . .

I like it that way says the tattooed cowboy on his mechanical horse riding off into the sunset of rain and pollution wishing only that he had arms around his waist for five more long bleeding warm petrified minutes.

You won't fall off, I assure you kid.

Hold on.

Every ending is a beginning. Repeat that ten times then call me me if the problem persists.