Burrows, Gin, and Gangster Guns

Noise. Light. And a hollow metal tube speeding screaming through a dark in-between. Pay to see the tigers, museum. Members free, but the exhibits are caged.

Motionless, a candy cane sickness sleeps in the corner. Round corners of a cornered round, one last round to put the loud ones over the edge. I have to move my bag for Grandma Pelvis. A cloud of choking dust settles on the seat and a clown with the face of the day asks what time it is. What time for who? You or me?

It doesn't matter. The chewy fruit youth stumbles into our mobile galaxy, bringing a somber mood and the raw passioned plea for acknowledgement. He wants an honest dollar. No one looks. I give him ten but refuses his wares politely. Charity seems empty for some reason and the loss of money hurts less than this unknown sadness. More suited to losing their words in my ears, and now the shame of past phantoms has caught up with me.

The empty station has such pretty lights. Glimpsed through plexiglas for seconds at a time. Like galaxies in an Italian telescope. Feeling like a junky without the junk. I burrow through the words of past prophets and wonder if their nicotine screams mean anything. A rose of plant and dairy wanders past and spreads her petals lewdly. I travel every day but go nowhere. Like a subatomic hitchiker, leaping from A to B and making no real progress.

Time to go.