On the Road: Our Life, Our Salute – A quick read into madness

Posted: May 30, 2017 in LIFE AND STUFF
Tags: , , , , , ,

31452490845_f7598ede24_bWe were cruising on the road, dateline, July 10th, 1993 – outside of some sleepy little dusty town.

Drive through liquor store just outside the town limits, 14 bottles of whiskey stashed into the trunk, enough for the 75 miles to the next little shit hole town, Petersburg, named after Walter Peters, a general from the Civil War.

What so civil about war anyways?

John was taking hits off the can of gasoline stored in the back, tipsy, running on speed, trying to see if there were bunny rabbits on the side of the road selling tomatoes and a variety of fruits.

There wasn’t a soul outside, just flashes of lightning, drifting rain, memories, words of sorry, Angela was trying to find us, me.

She killed herself back in Tulsa, some boy broke her heart, he doesn’t need to be named for this story.

We were hoping for a life of leisure when the bottom fell out, miscarriage, 2003, I tried to be a man, but failed, like always, and ran away for the road.

Four bit hookers on speed, trying to remember the golden times, space, time, ripped from the womb of mother, father drunk.

Tonight, the yellow lines of the road speed by us, laser show, this is our story, running on empty at mile marker 23.

I was listening to the radio, this was our song, feelings, right there, busted heart, Las Vegas took my last dollar, found ten on the way to Reno.

I remember sitting on the roof, throwing shingles into the street below. ¬†Pigeons stared at me as I listening to the moon trying to tell me everything would be alright, shouldn’t jump, break the street, in a bloody mess, someone would have to clean it up anyways.

beat1

Night, the road always seems to be peaceful out there.

It wasn’t, my mind was thinking, always bad to think.

Johnny was dying in some hospital out east, bad liver, killed himself with the bottle.

1492, something about the ocean blue, this one was dedicated to Johnny, maybe when he died, we’d stop at some flea bite hotel outside of Fargo, North Dakota, we’d drink some gasoline from fancy crystal glasses, out by the broken pool.

Our life, a salute – a man in the corner, making potions, in some traveling show, riding the train, listening to the music of the tracks.

We stood outside, in the whispering wind, listening to the memories, 2017, still high on whatever we found on the street of the last town.

Me1

Indiana corn field burning brightly in the sweet, sweet night.

Good night, till tomorrow, we shall see…..

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