Highway 94 westbound to Milwaukee, stuck in a traffic jam heart beating to the wipers play. I’ve been here for a week it’s done nothing but rain.
In the grey – POP- swirls of exhaust
He steps out and is walking towards me
Another American shooting spree
which you’ll learn by the end of this story. I’m listening – pop-
Nothing I can do I didn’t come prepared
I have an apple. I turn on the radio
Do you remember when we pushed little mustangs and tried to put and keep together the little racetracks, the smell of the electric as you fit the little pin? ….the tiniest bottles of oil.
1994 many years ago
coming home from Cleveland cold shit snow
the lead singer of my band pulled over sometime around 3:00 a.m. to get gas and I heard him pull out and start playing with a butane lighter. he doesn’t (didn’t) smoke he’s got other things on his mind he’s got the love of the world and all the women that he left behind and that
and he had big dreams they were squandered by miles and miles of square houses and meager eyes all those still hope
When you travel the world it becomes a small town and we still have the desire to leave
I posted about this in some other war on Facebook and the comments
” He must have been a snowflake. ”
The man the men the unstable trends not enough likes or comments or friends
They pull over
Smell the roses. Ignite gas stations.
Tonight or tomorrow Ohio is on fire.
I used to sell schwag for rock bands
And I’d write a book about that but
Some snowflake rock star asshole killed me while we were in the van trying to write a song and smoking pot or sleeping or
Highway 94. I turn off the radio and let the wipers set the tone. There are no screams or horns just silence and -POP- grey and the sound of the rain.
I just want to make eye contact with the fiend
Ironically a light ahead turns