Greyhound

Cowboy boots and vintage wool psychedelia (poncho, jazz shades) and cool drip slow burn tea and electric notes of Bob Dylan, Maggie’s Farm and that dude, he has meth mouth so I guess he’s going to talk and talk and talk Mestizo soda pop and a Vietnam Vet. selling car insurance and damn, it’s just too bad that no one knows of his jungle or of the opaque-eyed landlocked Lord of the Fish and the fire-brained midnight mutterings of his old compadres, the soon to be deceased and now the bus moves Sporadic in gesture and old woman (oxygen masked dementia) and the intergalactic fliers of fancy and the acid head priest’s imbalance in fact v. fiction with his ass in seat and wheels as feet and the shivering ribs of this, our noble mode of ultimate conveyance through the assailing grays whites and silvers of the snow-water-nebulas and now the bus slides and slides and slides Through Spokane dark and the disintegration of passengers into sleep on the black glass highway through the breath of the night and this is motion and this feels right.