A quiet rush

I had nothing to contribute. Nothing. There was a grey hair, stuck between fingers, on my writing hand. It was definitely one of mine. I yanked it out of fingers and dropped it. Whatever, man.

I washed the steering wheel on my old car, which in the damp morning had got sticky, and kinda gross, and I cleaned it, almost, it was less sticky after I took the dish soap to it, let’s put it that way. wiping the crud off an old steering wheel should be an easy task, not crud leading to a deeper layer of more crud, the paper towel showing the grime, the grime of my hands, the grime if the city, the grime of the century, and there I am, caught in the headlights.

People seem to die more while trying to get away from something, struggling to not get caught. Deny everything, and if you got lawyers to help shovel you out, ok, and if not, well, then not. Running from feelings, held deep inside whilst I munch on yet another electric orange Dorito, new magic mushroom flavor, yummy, and giving me heartburn all at the same time.

Munchkins left home and then killed everybody, the highways and byways swallowed up a blue trumpet of despair, followed by legions of cops , in black, gold and silver badge, mouths in straight line, leaving for the coast anyway now. Anyway.

I couldn’t seem to reach into the wooden toy box of memory, of dream, I don’t know, it wasn’t gonna be good, wasn’t gonna turn bad either. some days are just plain dull, the electronic transfers just droning on, completing themselves, kinda like watching the paint dry, the faint odor of the chemicals wafting around, drawing the flies, do the flies get buzzed when the paint thins out ? Everybody likes a good buzz once in a while, is that it ?

My buddy I usually bump into at VONS, bump being a figure of speech, was complaining about having to show up for work, which he was sick of. I’ve done that, more times than I could count, but I sometimes want to get workin’, get drivin’, get cash in pocket. A busy bee. There was a quiet hush I felt in my bones. Maybe today I was left to my own devices. An ex-rumrunner no longer bringing in a new load of hooch up to the warehouse by the river hair slicked back with pomade, knowing the cops had been paid to look the other way, and things were safe as milk for now. But life isn’t always a risk, not always an adventure, not always a leap into the not known, no comprendo. Sometimes it’s all too familiar, quiet, boring, immovable. The pool closes at 3. Thanks to one and all.

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