I wander America on a Harley Davidson motorcycle, sleep on couches and in fifty-dollar motel rooms, eat at Waffle House and Main Street cafes, and have conversations with people whose politics I might not agree with. These are our stories.
The Barber
In Fès, I have breakfast at the Cinema Café, a little street-side diner with movie posters on the walls and indoor and outdoor tables; a cheese omelet, half an avocado sliced on top, hummus with a tomato garnish, fresh-squeezed orange juice, tart black olives, café...
My View of America
A friend told me that I was being apocalyptic in my view of America. In the late 1800s, a French painter by the name of Georges Seurat created a style of painting called pointillism. Pointillism is the aggregation of thousands of tiny dots that in their entirety...
Huh…
Fès
Windows high and open The Sahara warms my keys. Pigeons pirouette outside my bars curved and worked to ban the world. And through the hammered iron I watch feral cats shop the gutter as Arabic and French stutter on cobblestones below. A balding tom with orange mange...
I No Longer Believe in American
I thought I did my bit. I served in the Army. I went to college. I started and ran a successful business. I raised two kids and sent them to college. I bought houses, cars, furniture and paid my taxes. I walk my dog. I love my wife of thirty-two years. I wasn’t blind...
Pebbles
Randy’s not tall, 5’6” or so. His left shoulder was badly hurt in an incident and is hunched and sits lower than his right shoulder causing him to lead with his left when he walks, like a boxer, the good shoulder back and cocked like he’s about to throw a haymaker....
We Were Fourteen
We’d walked barefoot along the tracks, balancing on the sun-scorched rails and cooling our feet on the sharp stone ballast every few steps until we were above the Eleventh Street beach and then sat side-by-side on the sandstone cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean,...
Life
I was thinking. Life is only experience, it has a beginning and an end and each day as we live toward death, we decide whether to expand or contract our experience. There is no overcoming it, we die, we all die; no matter how undeserving we imagine a person to be, no...
The Quitman Legacy
America is a beautiful thing... Damn it’s a beautiful evening here in Cleveland, Mississippi. I spent the day riding north from Natchez on Highway 61, The Blues Highway. My motel room cost $50.00. No coffee, no wi-fi. Last night in Natchez, I stayed at John Quitman’s...
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