The border guard smiles as you explain the cookies he doesn't need to know about- but maybe you want to tell him rehearsed stories make something up, they call them girl guides in Canada.
By Indiana you lose track no states or cities just religious radio fireworks stands the largest adult toy warehouse in the midwest and you know it's America.
The road was closed in Canada, you remember the line you wrote about the prettiest girl and the ugliest building living in the same city it makes you like the city more.
The Andy Warhol sign obscured by the sun; you'll never know what Warhol was doing with Chicago.
There's a difference in the toll booths there, no one smiles or hears you say "Thank You" for the ten cents for the two quarters but in the hotel room you hear them having sex or maybe it's the pipes flushed an hour ago the groan of showers through pipes a low moan a high sigh either way you're alone and you want very much not to be in Chicago.
In the traffic jam in Canada the mayor of Toronto talks about thought crime here's one:
The woman in back of me is from New York I can see it in her liscence plate, You want to tell her you've got girl scout cookies. In Chicago, you've got a headache while they fuck.
You watch the news a boy on a bike hit with a Porsche that kept on driving. Sex or the pipes? Chicago, Chicago even Ira Glass has left me in exchange for 72 hours of Pledge drives.
I'm racing to this city and it was like the race I took to you when you was the warm body at the end of it, as if my arrival meant a kiss and a back rub hips, legs, hands.
But the pipe sex makes it all into prostitution now, strip clubs flashing neon lights the advertisement for subscription pornography on the hotel's tv with no one here.
It dawns on me: perhaps the occupants of room 320 are sobbing uncontrollably.
It dawns on me that after this long I might forget how not to be alone.
-e.
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