The Commute

x number of hours from a to b, and while certainly it can always be worse, it could always be better--- the fact remains that there are mother****ers in the cities who don’t have to get up early & jump in their cars to get on the freeway & haul ass while dealing with the frustrations of every moron that was able to get a driver’s license, there are people in the cities who walk to work, who hail a cab & yes, though there are those that stuff themselves into a small tin box in a sequence of small tin boxes & glide slowly in the heat, underground, stopping every 100 feet or so… the commute doesn’t warrant such thoughts that might illuminate the commute itself. the commute is time spent in a personal cell drifting above the asphalt, pondering all the happenings of the day before, of the night before, witnessing the weather, whatever it might be, treating you like its own little pet teddy bear to throw around in its teeth, like a dog that just got out of the pound getting that first real bone again grrrrrrrrrrrrr--- and the morning coffee on the way just doesn’t do it, and the donut or the bagel or the cigarette or the hashish just doesn’t do it--- it seems no matter what can be done in that time spent in the car, the commute steals time that could’ve been spent elsewhere. might think that it is the 21st century & the fact that they don’t have flying cars or the ability to “beam me up, scotty,” just pisses the **** out of you, might think that oral sex would improve the ride if you had cruise control, sure, might think that this routine is killing you, and that the commute itself represents the inability to make what you really want in life to be your own, quicker--- might think that today is the day to step on the gas, make a quick withdrawal at the bank & turn your back on all that was, making only room for what lies ahead.