William S. Burroughs
In grade 10 I had this black book that I wrote really bad teenage poetry in. I got all of my 50 cent words from a paperback thesaurus that I toted around with it. I tore this image of William S. Burroughs out of a Rolling Stone Magazine and taped in on the inside cover with 3 pieces of tape. It made a perfect pocket to hide rolling papers and flattened cigarettes. I smoked when it was cool to smoke from age 13 to 21. I quit one day without much thought, I was lucky.
On August 1, 1997, the night before William S. Burroughs died I had a dream about him. I dreamed we necked by the hedges in the back yard of the Wolf Road condominiums in Chilliwack, where we lived when I was about 6. The same Wolf Road condominiums where in real life a neighbor kid and I mistakenly packed her dad’s hash brownies for a picnic we were having at the tiny park between our two places. They were chocolatey and delicious and meant for her dad’s fishing trip.
I went home stoned and remember sliding down our orange carpeted stairs singing the alphabet backwards. I couldn’t believe I could sing the alphabet backwards and forwards and inside out and sideways… Sideways?…Wait a second. My poor Mom had sent me with a double buttered bologna n’ mustard sandwich, a Super Socco and an apple. Two hours later we were at the hospital getting my stomach pumped. I tripped balls, I remember so many things, but I don’t remember ever playing with that little neighbor girl again. Maybe we moved. Kind of the perfect place for me and Bill’s first and last kiss.