Milk and Honey
She said “Do you remember meeting me at the shopping cart races?”
I said , “I might have killed those brain cells.”
She said “Do you remember moon pies?”
And I did, somehow I did. I saw mountains of moonpies being passed among hundreds of crusty queers in a park in Ann Arbor Michigan. I remembered that that town was a land of milk and honey because there was a ten cent deposit on every beer can, and a bin full of them outside of every frat house. I remembered river rats from Minneapolis building pirate ships out of shopping carts, I remember sex on a front porch and making out on train tracks and a diner built out of an aerobus. The bus diner was sitting on the tracks at the exact point when any train leaving town pulled over. That way you could sit eating fries until your ride got there… milk and honey.
I remember one day that I drank water from a bottle in a trash can and felt tripped out for the rest of the day. I remember a person with purple hair talking about the camp of trannies they had built outside of the Michigan Womens Festival because none of them or their boy children were allowed inside.
Racers came to town for the week. They had workshops, got shit faced, went to or played at shows that happened every day. There was a score board spray painted on the side of a prominent building where cops and punks competed to own the town. Cops got a point everytime someone got arrested or an event was successfully shut down and punks got a point everytime someone or everyone got away.
On racing night alot of punks just shoved their drunk asses into carts and had their closest friends push them off the edge of a dangerously steep hill in the middle of town. Others had worked days or weeks turning multiple carts, bound together, into wild animals and land ships.
I remember the sea of carts and patchworked sails and moonlight and good screams.
And I sort of remember the girl.
Come to find out…she had brought all those moonpies.