I decide to share a joint with Kate Winslet whose name was really Sharna, a woman who worked in London but did not know anyone stuck in the UnderGround when it exploded.
We meet naturally, like the last two of an extinct race, being the only two people by ourselves in
the dark cave of the place. What unfolded there after, in just one night, was the best Date ever.
I realized this when we finally found the falafel and sat down in the middle of the street to eat it,
too drunk and too stoned and too Amsterdam to know any better.
My date with Kate Winslet ended with a non-kiss. We both went home to call our boyfriends
and to ponder the strange magnetic prettiness of our new friend; and to fall asleep, stoned,
next to a clear images of each other’s faces.
Stoned Girls in Amsterdam/ I’m Coming
White girls from All Over America are heading Here to sit by the window in coffee shops,
focusing on the flowers, and to drink espresso and have whole milk and smoke thick joints and
wait for everything not there to be illuminated.
They are burning their throats. By the end of the next day, it feels like they have been
going down on burning buildings for the past 6 hours. They are having strange thoughts and writing about it. They are feeling talentless.
They are shopping. They are eating falafel. They are Getting Lost.
They are considering walking over to see the place where Anne Frank got her first period.
They are wishing it would get dark, sooner.
They are looking at doughnuts like soulmates.
They are sad and stoned.
They are waiting for everything not there to be illuminated.
And re: Boys there:
5 young men from 5 different countries all the speak the international language of pot.
They are gathered around the full lip end of a bar in a coffee shop; this one smells like wood,
It’s right by the water. This is how they all met; being in this place.
Having nothing better to do, they exchange stories of hazy recollected nights
with assorted young ladies of the Red Light District.
Some like it rough and slap you around. Some keep their shoes on. (Some don’t.)
The 5 young men are speaking the international language of Women They’ve Fucked,
and as they do, all lines ever drawn creating countries fade into the smoke
that curls out of their mouths like words.