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Cool, vintage old bus from U.S. Air Force film.

Crossing Georgia

I’ve been bopping through highways on Greyhound since 5 pm yesterday. It’s 2:44 now. There’s a distance to fill to Tucson, another 2 days before we arrive. Eyes heavy. Quite fellow sitting next to me just got outta prison, headed to Atlanta, our next layover, wears tan slacks and a white long sleeve. The bags under my eyes are reusable grocery bags filled with bruised fruit. Christ, I’m tired. Writing poems, wiring poems, a haphazard literary electrician trying to recover whatever permitted the consistent vomiting of every squeamish thought without blessing or damnation, just shooting stars, chasing shooting stars, a fool, the lover ruled by passion, dedicated homeless wandering open mic to open mic, festival to festival, street corner to street corner, and for what? I don’t know. To push creative thinking and love, free thinking and passionate living? No, there is a subtly under the mask of manifestos. The bus driver speaks with a warm southern tongue. The bathroom wretched with the stench of chemicals. My shoes tattered to my socks, my socks sewn to my skin, the bags under my eyes flapping like tumbleweeds on highways, my eyes think they can fly, ahhhhhh, the weird jazz of exhaustion and slavery to every thought, creative plantations, here we go again, weird sky, weird clouds, weird bus, weird year. Goodbye 2014. I’ll be staying in a Mongolian yurt in Tucson upon your death.

[ by runtraccoonrevolution ]