D a r k n e s s

I think about the documentary about Charles Mingus getting evicted and arrested. He’s walking down a New York sidewalk with two big white cops walking on either side and the last shot of the film is a stand-up bass leaning against a garbage truck. A tense man with a microphone hustles along side him and asks him why he was arrested. They Found Some Hypodermic Needles, Mingus mumbles.

Whose fault is it, theirs or his?

Theirs. I find a joint that she saved from way back in highschool and take a tug as a little black cat looks up at me on the couch. Steve writes, Come Down To Mendoza Some Time. I toy with the idea; maybe I’ll get on a red bicycle and fly to Mars as well.

S w e e t n e s s . . .