Jason Andrew Giecek



I sit here in the Land of Ali; Louisville, Kentucky, my secondary hometown, the land that created me, second only to Butte,,Montana.



I laugh at this point as Hunter S. Thompson wrote about both.

Louisville, Kentucky is where he grew up, became something.

Butte, Montana is where he learned booze was a merry hateful elixir.

I learned the same lessons.

I watched madness erupt at a casino in the middle of a corn field in Indiana.

I saw an Amazon hooker with two midgets at the same casino.

When I die, I want her leading my funeral with the same midgets, an Irish ballad playing.

So here I sit, a cool breeze blowing over me.

It’s a beautiful night, one that takes me away from this planet, this planet of racial, sexual and other division.

I begin to hate that world; hatred, putrid love on a lie.

I wish we could love each other, like we did on the bus through Wisconsin.

Color didn’t matter, only getting your seat by yourself unless a pretty girl came on the bus.

I wasn’t that lucky.

I got an old insurance salesman.

1965 was his best year.

He made $356.27.

He paid off his car and part of his house.

He was super proud.

He sat there talking, words coming out of his mouth, a thousand words a minute.

He was a god among men, a good kind.

I sat there listening, trying to figure out his words, bit by bit, a million words per minutes.

I sat there, looking at the sky, trying to figure out where I needed to go, I stood at the doorway and looked outside, to the bushes, where the cherries grew and the sweetness layed!!

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