On the Gravel Road

We drove for hours through the desert. We witnessed inconceivable landscapes – not the breathtaking ones, not the cathartic ones. Through the dirty, nearly opaque window, barren vastness was passing us by. It was not an everlasting beauty, no – it was a hallucinogen land. The hillocks in the background formed the infinite spiral lines. I remember, if more than seven long seconds of not blinking would pass, I'd feel hypnotized.
Los Angeles. The city of incessant contradiction. All the wealth surrounding all the homeless. Some of them talk to themselves, some ask you for a quarter, or try to sell you a plastic garbage can, as an excuse for laziness. Some ask: how dare you, you – well dressed, clean, with a wallet in a pocket and plans in your head, how dare you walking into their precarious certainty of breakdown? Are the streets free, omnipotent; should we knock down the traffic lights, dance on the crossroads, live on the sidewalks? Do we have a choice?
Imagine I'm writing all this on a flashcard, as Nabokov used to, on a gas station, in a café, stuck in a traffic crowd. Imagine how every card absorbs black ink, refracting into an aquarelle which turns the moment into eternity, words go through the prism and exist in your eyes as a specter of vivid images.
And you'll see art. I lived that art. Graffiti on the walls. Posters. Vintage shops. Vinyl. Colors. Street performances. Colors. Blue. The ocean. The sand. The heat. Eating the past away, blurring the vision, awaking the pure existentialism, praising the power of here and now. Without a cause, without a goal. Exempt of everything that hopples the absolute freedom.
The House of Blues. I lived there in 1963, I know. I remember. I lucidly feel Janis Joplin's voice. If you find the time machine, you'll find me too. I am the reincarnation of Morrison's LA Woman. I’m “just another lost angel in the city of night”… Does it even make you wonder how the Earth still spins deprived of their lives?
Hank's grave. I sat there for hours, doing what he'd to: light a cigarette, screw everything, and write a poem. And be present only in the moment given. Because he said it himself - don't try. Do not even bother trying.

Oh, and – I almost forgot – Houdini had grey eyes.