We pulled off the side of the road.  Amongst corn fields.  I threw my bottle as far as I could into the deep field.  I want to run through it, I said more to myself than to my brother.  My brother opened a beer. I watched as the vapor flew out of my breath.  Crystal white.  There were no stars, only the light from the car.  I traced my finger on a corn stalk and unzipped my fly.  We should just take off through this shit, I said again.  Just take off running.  There isn't anything at home.  What are we going to do there?  Sit in the heated square?  Flush the toilet?  Take night classes so we can learn French?  Maybe we will get a little older and run off with our kid's third grade teacher.  I zipped up and walked into the deep corn.  Spider webs immediately formed around my head.  I brought up my hand to try to break them.  My brother laid down on the road and started singing Eleanor Rigby horribly out of tune.  You could live out here in this corn, I said, already bored from the scratchy leaves of the corn stalks 

I boarded a plane correctly once; I had my earphones in, sony walkman playing "Nebraska," by Bruce Springsteen.  Somewhere over  Texas I got chills during "Atlantic City."


Never been much of a flyer.  Though sometimes I wonder if I make a deal about it just to have a deal about it.  Once up there I enjoy gazing at the clouds and the fun shapes of the ground. 

I wonder how one indents on here?

Is this a journal of my thoughts?  Who do I write this for?  What time was it, the date, last time I laid on the ground next to my stereo speakers, moved by George Harrison's Rickenbacker?

My cousin has a Rickenbacker.  I have never actually played one; not guitar, not bass.

Running in the cold makes me feel something.  I pretend its a feeling of living.