How to Be Cool Again
I put on a torn-up gray hoodie that looks like Bob Dylan found it in Minnesota when he was Zimmy and I check myself to make sure I’ve got a couple of legs that can take me walking, walking in January ( yeah, one of em’s turning to wood, but I’d rather be Long John Silver than Dandelion wine, I’m turning into Partial Pinocchio, but at least you know I’m not fucking lying) and in that January the Lowcountry afternoon sun is shining and warm and I take a trip on the piece of dirt separating me from Car Smash Todd dead and South Carolina Highway 61 Ashley River Road while I’m simultaneously washed by warm sunshine killing the ugliness of my winter eyes and the syncopated winds of automobile urgency, each beat underscoring Beck’s Guero in my ears, each breath I take making me bigger than I was one pace before, each car that passes so close by a bubble insect filled with prisoners staring out windshields and windows at my Reverse Parade, I’m turned inside out by sunshine soaking through bare deciduous limbs from a violet sky as the walking crank pushes me along the clogged artery of 61, so I feel that grin climb out of the shadow and spread itself on my face, the grin that goes with shining eyes and says to the windshields, “Yeah, it’s me.”
That’s cool.
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