||[Jun. 4th, 2008|06:00 pm]
Hard Sun beating down on glistening flesh, now tense from days in the Yard.|
Time supple and loose, might have been forty-five minutes or nine.
Waiting on No. 5 to take me to the Station
so i can wait for No. 6 to take me to the Den.
Vodka in my bag makes it easier to sit in the sun.
(cum was drizzling all over my hand mere hours before)
I hold the plastic disc in my hand while i smoke, wondering why the Beast in the Tower still mocks me.
Didn't i do my Time? Have i not layed my guts (albeit haphazardly) out on a number of burning Summer Tables, expecting Catharsis while receiving nothing but more fuel for my anxiety and paranoia?
A ladybug with spirals for antennae in that disc.
Stupid fucking fate.
Ten minutes early, No. 5 arrives. No wonder i have such trouble getting around here.
This Pit can't even run a Public Transportation System properly.
I'm sure the Beast sees to that.
In the No. 5.
I sit in the very back, taking nips of liquified potato, feet propped up, farmer's tan quite apparent. There is no reflection in the window. I am a Ghost of the City.
At the Transit Station.
Dust rises ominously in the Wind, a shroud for a dead town believing itself to be growing, to be alive. I can see the Santa Fe building and the myriad other buildings IXtinda and i infiltrated between 95' and 98' roughly, looming in the skyline.
The color of everything is wrong.
And of course, the No. 6 is running late.
In the mirror of the bathroom at the Station, i see a tired-looking zombie with scraggly hair looking morosely back at something pretending to be alive.
I wonder if the people on the south side of the Station are afraid of me, if they can smell the disquiet on my body.
I certainly would not be surprised if they did.
We do smell of that sort of thing. Even as apes rising (or falling?) from the muck, i think we did and still and do posess an ability to smell fear and anxiety on our siblings.
Something chemical, probably.
Survivalist shit, you know?
No. 6 shows up late, after i've been watching the wind throw empty beer cans and veils of dust around the deserted parking lots and streets for a good hour.
I get on and head toward the back.
The Girl i'm in love with is on my mind, but a number of pointless memories are pushing for space in all that Dead Wind. I unscrew the cap and pull from the bottle in my backpack, hoping no one's really paying attention.
We're all trying to get somewhere without much to go on, right? Why would anyone care if a guy with farmer's tan and military-esque clothing takes a nip in the back of the bus?
But someone looks. And i play it off, pretending to not be able to find something in my bag.
There's a sign above my head declaring War by means of Red Bar if i drink on the bus.
It's alright. I'm not drinking..
The nice-looking houses roll by, the little restaurants slip silently into the Summer, the cars loll stupidly in the streets, the crippled and able tend to their tasks with sullen faces, and i just watch, feeling very little, if anything at all.
I now sit in the Den, waiting for my Love to come keep me company in this Hollow Hovel painted Embryonic Orange by the setting sun, watching the dusty, old sacks covering the west window flap in the breeze of some Strange Summer wind..
Old Xenosaur X driving pleasant screws into my head, taking nips of soggy french fries and drags of hand-made cigs dying by my mouth as the Great Eye slips down..
Dust and Debri..
Dried sweat, cum and the faint decade-old smell of incense..
Transit to Another Era.
Light and wind transporting me to another Era, though i desire not to stay..
[the sacks over the window were once used for hauling Potatos]