|Minnie Lipke, May 1967|
They tied her to a tree with a skinny millionaire.
The band is going home,
its raining hammers,
its raining nails.
Its quiet here. Tom Waits is singing to himself in the corner saloon, and the dog is snoring. The stove gleams like brand new teeth.
I have found a measure of stillness.
I was a melancholy child and have grown up to be not much removed from that stance. I love melancholy. To me it means that you are in love with what is passing away, moment by moment.
And I am in love with it.
I hate to see it go, and I always watch as it recedes.
Tomorrow I head down south to visit the Wild Woman of Borneo. She's in captivity, which is when it is safe to try to pat her on the head and feed her a hunk of raw meat.
She seems to be doing well, despite her unhappiness there.
I would hand her my beating heart if it would save her.
Last week some tweakers in our town beat a fifteen year old girl to death and dumped her on the side of the road and set her on fire.
I guess they were sick of her shit.
It makes my hands want to break something.
I love being alive.
You don't have to take it from me.
Not yet, anyways.