What I’ve got here is some OG #18. I taste meat, grease, gas, incense. Not fruit. Bong rip. No cough but a little tenderness in the throat. Harvest was June ninth, twenty-twenty-two. The THC comes in at 26.1 per cent.
Creeping high. I’m on my first drink, which is not usually the case. Usually I’ve had a couple of drinks by the time I’m craving a smoke but we’ve been driving all day.
It’s Braves 5, Mets 3. An urge to write is a good early side effect but this urge might not be due to the weed. It could be the driving. It’s happened before. It’s the movement, my body through the gravity-controlled space of this planet, the vibration of traveling seventy miles an hour, backward in time, against the spin, in a car.
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Game via radio, Chicago feed. Pat Hughes, Ron Coomer, Zach Zaidman. The Cubs take the lead on an Ian Happ double. The regular season is almost over. Can you believe it? Like a wink. Wild pitch, Cubs add a run, it's 3-1.
We say it every year, and not just about baseball, but: where did the season go? Where did the time go? The months like water, like sand, like air. A temperature that will change and what can you do about it? No, nada.
As we drove north-northeast from Springfield today the skies were mixed. To the west, dark skies. Confused, malformed clouds. A blue darkness. We were along the flatness of Illinois. The sky extended as far as we could see in any direction...
North, to Chicago, go on...
Was assigned to cover a golf tournament. Lots of players. I actually got out on the course. But then they were throwing frisbees not hitting golf balls. One of the frisbees hit me and I was embarassed. On the third hole, I lost them. Fell asleep or something. Phil Williams was around. I was gonna … Continue reading Frisbee Golf
What’d I write last night?
The morning is coffee
And looking through notebooks
Twenty-eight and still too scared
To say thrice into the mirror,
Moon at an acme
That no company could match —
Din of merger news
Kerouac’s best haiku
Were the ones that went
Into alcoholism, no