Tuesday, December 2, 2008


streaked and smeared. pilliars of light form across the wet asphalt connecting me and everything. the cuffs of my jeans hug my ankles as i walk parallel with the blue line below. a grainy fog coats the sky with a slight hint of a merky moon glowing in the distance. the homeless stretch along market street under scaffolding. lifeless, yet restless. My head is still ringing from the rebel love songs of past generations that infiltrate my headphones and speak to my heart. Waits, Dylan, and Bragg- thank you.

Pitchers with Pete

Our voices harshed and open. we reconnect over overpriced pitchers and underrated clash songs in the newest hipster bar to reach northern liberties. the table: cut from an old bowling alley lane, still had the marks of the bowling balls that put smiles on faces. we disucussed our individual madness, and distorted perceptions on the way things were. Our smallest sentences spoke volumes to our souls, and for once- I felt okay.

add your own ending.

Engines remain calm in single file lines outside midnight toll booths where the enlightened and disenchanted meet. the bright lights reflect off arrows freshly painted directing where to make your exit. The bitter smile of the teller shows how welcome you really are, but neither of you are happy to be here.

Changing radio stations is like pulling teeth. The arguments are the most exciting part of this four hour drive. Passing through county lines, the medians are the only sights worth seeing. The fast food wrappers and cigarette butts make up stories of hopeless commitments and the lost art of addiction.