Going to Jamaica

Waiting for the gnocchi to cook. Sweet gnocchi. My one true love, from the hills of Italy, from grandmothers kitchen.

We are fine. We'll get along. Run through this year. Run through the next. Pure and utter terror. Say good bye to your freedom, say goodbye to your hair. Say hello to suffocation and despair. Say hello to a wounded heart, a bleeding heart and caught screaming in nets. I'll buy thirty dollar hair gel, I'll be fantastic. Patience: it's all I need. Wear them out, let the good times roll.

I'm going to Jamaica for a few weeks. I'm going to swim in the ocean. I'll drink some beers at night and smoke my cigarettes and feel the breeze on my shaven head. I'll imagine naked Jamaicans out in the surf at night. Their eyes sparkling, reflecting the beach lights. I'll fear sharks in the water, eels and fish in the water.

It will be a good change of pace, to escape for a while. The weather here is mad. The stars too often lure me into their depths.

Maybe they'll be poker in Jamaica. Maybe I'll win a thousand dollars. I could meet business men from the nineteen fifties and smoke cigars. Drink more beers, maybe some rum. Pretend I'm a pirate later in the evening.

Jamaica will be fine. A good change of pace.