From this city there starts a line going across the mountains and deserts. It ends on the sunny coast of California. There I've been and there I've seen. Another line took me to Colorodo and Nevada. Snow capped mountains, high altitude, in one city a simpler life while in the other a fantasy. Then there is the line going east, first across the Mississippi river washed up on a truly decadent city then on to another more subdued place with no less a fantasy than the one in Nevada. Where or when will I be in another place with a different face?
I want to wake up in a strange bed with a beautiful stranger. I want to wake up in one city and go to sleep in another. For breakfast I would like croissants with butter, chickory coffee, and strawberry jam. For lunch I would like sausage on a stick from a cafe in west Texas and for dinner I would like Alaskan King Crab that was fished out of the icy waters that morning. Perhaps you could join me in each and every place. That I would like too. But please don't talk too much because sometimes I don't want to talk I simply want to feel. The rough fabric of the blanket in a Motel 6. The grease on the formica table top in that diner on route 66 . Stopping by a cemetary thrown down and forgotten by the side of the railroad tracks and rubbing my fingers over the names of people that ended up where they weren't even born. And to feel the skin through the shirt, to run my hands down the groove of the spine on a living statue, to feel that hardness and that softness between my fingertips. The heat of breath upon my shoulders and in the hollows of my throat and my hips. Lovers are lucky they have a lifetime but the annoynmous bodies in the empty rooms across the landscapes of America's hotels are even luckier because they have the freedom to choose where they go, who they see, and where they lay their heads down for the next night, in the next city.