I lugged a kilo of cocaine in my kit bag across border lines and through tolls, up and down the country. The more I took in, the more I invited – fire walk with me – the more newness I drank in and sucked through my mouth, the more forced its way out. Deeply I took in new soul through my nose, felt the wind in my eyes and the sand on my toes. This country, eternally, will not be explored entirely. There is an island and a mountain for every secret that I’m keeping, for every mile that I drove on the Motorway to Roswell. I lived and I breathed in television screens, in popcorn and in your defeat. I sat down near you, a seat or two over, and you offered to share. I said no, of course. No. Forever. And feverishly, burnt, I devoured pop culture until I was drunk – but I mourned the death of the traditional letter – by mail or by pigeon carrier. I tended to miss ‘sealed with a kiss’, parchment and face value. The lack of disguise by anything other than a filled wastebasket and a box of matches. They tried to make it easier not to spill yourself on paper, but it didn’t work and now we are in the age of backspace and not a single common value. Fire walk with me. Pop culture, unusual nature, I am swimming in Americanisms. The words that came out were never my own – not what I had been taught. I hadn’t been taught nor fed at all. My tongue eats and spits the words differently to the one intertwined with mine. My brain and my tongue conspire to bring out a different – a world of couches, status and candy. I was not taught at all. Inspiration used to be a burden, were I doing or working or sitting alone. Not alive. The tongue curled differently than the one intertwined, and I said fire walk with me.
The day the blocks came down,
I was home.