Linear hairy Devils and the caramelo call

Pessimism. Luck be no lady -- only lady I love right now is tar black and combusts my cigarettes when they meet. I-95 and the Palmetto. Late nights lately on them fill me with calm. Fuck the job offer in France, fuck the nine to five gig, fuck sleeping now -- I'm gonna be a Road Ranger, not so much for changing tires but for driving the late shift. Smoke cigarettes and listen to the radio softly. It's all in the moment you see the cherry explode because there's no one behind you with their beams rising over the berm and the lights have flickered off so that god may only protect drunks and imbeciles in the dead of night. A train horn interrupts the typing noise... that's another man's lady. My arms are freckled white with paint... my hair's matted, my lower back aches, yet -- I don't want to find sleep... I'll be taking my brother to school in an hour, I'll be visiting my mother at the hospital around noon. One can beat the cancer. One can live terrified for ever. We must marry the two so that terror subsides with time. Pessimism. Narcissistic temperaments. Strength. Hope. Swords. We've loved pavement for so long now it might actually be welcomed in our mouths.