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The ride to work after vacation


While driving the great road home, the way I usually do, I saw a cluster of buildings. At one time they were various banks and edge companies, now they were all painted dark gray and just there, inert, not drawing any attention to the change in shade or really, moving much information at all. Why are they gray? Where are the names, the brandings? Why are they hiding their tattoos from me? Is this new ‘lack of’ just a youthful form of communication left to confuse?

As large empty broken down boxes bounced off my car like long dead summer cats, or Frisbee dung, I swerved over to a fast line, passing the crippled and slow, and got rebalanced on the roads edge. It was the end of vacation when everything burns, and you think, what about hope?

 It seems like it’s always been a land of, “it could be worse” - a land of fixed asphalt ambitions canned in an open area of get used to it. It’s like one big lesson on bondage – of binding things and thoughts while hobbling anything else that moves until you can figure out the proper way to bind it. It’s a bureaucratic molasses time, it’s industrial mudville.

I would vote for anyone who would make this shit stop. We have enough laws, enough cops, enough war – just do the best with what you’ve got and stop taking about how you need more of whatever. If you want more, spend less of what you got somewhere else. But mostly, stop talking. I really don’t care about Republican or Democrat – I know that I won’t get anything better than Obama, and Obama could have been better, though, again, it could be worse. Just blow it up already.

I think of love in my 20’s and the sadness at the memory of the newness -- of a time when even mistakes created wonder. It’s a sad darkness that’s swells in me as I flash card through the time slices of my past, until I remember that in a few years, the memory of anything other than this writing will have become dried up words reflecting nothing but a wind that used to blow.


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