Ain't never no land in sight

There's never sleep anymore. 

Only the sirens, yelling and the tap dancing cow above.

I wonder if my mother would still see it as "angels bowling". Probably not. 

And my constant wondering, about what he was constantly wondering. Now I'll really never know.

Marooned on a dingy in the middle of the ocean, is where I'd rather be. 

You know, one of those shitty little rotted canoes, with a piss yellow sail? 

And that water. As blue as any individual imagination could ever see its favorite tone of blue.

Lying on my back letting the sun cook my brain; exactly like when we were kids and we'd throw an egg on the neighbors paved driveway in the middle of the summer, just to test if it actually would cook. 

I'd like my brain to sizzle. And smell exactly like scrambled eggs. 

It's all I want to see. 

I would gladly throw away these dejected buildings to make my desperate escape to the middle of the sea. 

Dulciena

When I listened  long enough, the rolling of rubber on tar sounded like  water pummeling the sand.

When I felt the ice hit my face, I knew what he had felt.

When I watched undulating purple clouds begin to funnel, I knew his day had come. 

When the zephyr from the birds ruffled my hair as they exasperated from the dirt, I knew that he could finally rest. 

Hospital beds are but cages for those with the will to live.

If held captive long enough, the caged bird will discontinue song.

One Hundred Pennies

By law if 49% of a dollar bill is still in tact, it's still legal tender.

Exit Seventeen
$2.90 toll.

I hide the decrepit dollar under an in tact bill in order to trick the foolish government worker.
She was smarter than I anticipated.
"I cant take this" She yelled as she wiggled the handicapped dollar at my window in protest.

"Why not?" I continue to tell her the percentage rule. "I got it from a toll booth woman, and you're a toll booth woman, so take it"

"I'm sorry ma'm, I can't take that"
Since when was I a 50 year old woman?

"Fine" Grumpily, I miraculously find four quarters in the depths of my empty passengers seat.
Deciding that this woman has succsessfully ruined my drive, I yell "HERE!" and throw the quarters at her face and proceed to drive off.

Sure maybe it was rude, but hell lady; just take my god damned dollar.

Fast foward our lives to three weeks later:

I haven't eaten a thing all god damned day.
My classroom is sweating and so am I.
I pour fourty-five thousand dollars into a college and they can't even regulate temperature. Go figure.

I only have two bucks in my pocket; one of which is the deformity.

After my bagel is gloriously toasted and cream cheesed, I hand the cashier my two dollars.

"Um, I can not take this" comes the expected reply in broken english.
I spew my line about "the law" and "percentages"

"No, we can not take this"
Thank you government. You haven't helped me yet. At least you are consistent.

"Guess what lady? Youre going to take it, or give me this bagel for free because I have no other money in my pockets" Great. 10:26 and the arguing over nothing has begun. What a day.

"No no no"

"If a vending machine can take it, so can you" I grab my brown paper bag and stand there offering her the chance to actually take my money. She hands it back. Astonished, I leave. WITH the bagel.

This dollar is a bad habit.
This dollar is a starving dog.
This dollar is everything you grew up hating.

Money is a ridiculous concept.
Lets go back to trading pelts and chocolate.

Pick up an artist

At this point in my day I've been looking at books for the past 2.3 hours, in a four story bookstore. Words don't make sense to me anymore, so I decided to look at the picture books.

Crouching at the end of the photography isle, I find a book that is as banal as the color some call, "concrete" in this town; A book on dogs.

And thats when I feel it.

I dont even have to exercise my already dead peripheral vision to know that there is a man made of soot and boot dirt with yellow eyes breathing down my neck waiting for my concentration to break long enough so he can get his "hello"s in.

My book snaps shut like a starving venus fly trap- and so does his voice.
Before Im even able to grab another book on "trees" or "the ocean", my ears grab on to his "Heya there little lady" and refuse to let go.

"Um. Hello" Quick, fingers; find me another spineless picture book.
"So, you like dogs?" My fingers fail, but my ears hold steadfast.

No, I was just looking at a book on them because the fiery hatred I have for them burns inside me like one thousand suns.
"Yeah"

I can practically smell the acidity of the wash on his jean jacket, and yet if devoid of all senses, I know Id be able to still feel the grime falling off of him.

"So, what's your sign?"
I pretend I have no clue what that means, in a feeble attempt to knock him out of 1983. But apparently thanks to some wormhole, we are  in a club listening to Bonnie Tyler, and this creature wants to know my sign.

"Your astrological sign" Smacks his reply; since he now assumes he is smarter than I by showing an acute display of his knowledge of the final frontier.

His words clasp my ear as though my wrist were that of a child's and his one of the man in the park that drives a large white van.

"January. I was born in January." The words drool out of my mouth. I cant stop them. Drool. Helpless word dribble.

"OOh girl you and earf sign!"
Great, now hes excited.

With my nose buried in yet another picture-book that I cannot even seem to view, his words dance with my ear on the devils dance floor.

After I tell him I am not one for organized religion, his grasp seems to weaken and my ears can finally breathe.

I still cant come to terms with how I was not able to ask him to leave.

Maybe I felt sympathy for him.
Maybe I felt couldn't make another human feel as horrible as I felt.
Maybe, I just couldn't feel.

Rain Beats

I remember when I was little, when I still lived in what Manhattan residents call "the country", I could fall asleep the best when it rained and I could hear the water gurgling like a fat mans stomach in the gutters.

Here, on 23rd street; I cant get that.
Here, the residents throw pennies on my air condioner. No fat man's stomach is grumbling.

However, I have found my fat man's stomach, and he resides in the back wall of my room under the window.
His name is ' Radiator '

Five nights out of seven he tricks me into thinking rain is actually devouring this city.
When in all reality, Radiator is just sitting there, spitting, getting my blanket wet.
That son of a bitch.

So I suppose I cant complain; a simulation of rain, is often times better than the real thing.

Onion Town

Left

Right

Right

Left

Right

5.3 Miles to the glorious oasis of Onion Town.

There are no whitewashed signs with Veranda style letters welcoming you to this paradise. Only empty shotgun shells the color of candy letters you put on a childs birthday cake, and half eaten trailers.

3.:42 am, glows orange from my dashboard. This was a bad fucking idea.

Mutant residents creep around my car with weapons that would only be comprehensible in a 1987 horror flick. Make your move, buddy.

You would think these people grew up next to a power plant, or nuclear bomb site.  Did that man just have an extra arm? Take another sip of water, blink your eyes, calm down. 

Tarps for roofs, bricks for steps, I try to feel for these people, but I cant. Go back to school. Go get a real job. Go get some medication for whatever is rotting on your face.

6'4", red and black flannel shirt, and a beard with no end. I am almost positive this man is not wearing pants. The residents of this "town" seem to be not of this world.

4 almost functional motor homes, 2 dogs with three legs, and one sawed off shotgun later, I find no sign  thanking me for visiting "Onion Town"

Left

Right

Left

Left 

Right

67 Miles per hour, on my way back to earth.