Two weeks left of undergrad ---!
Here is something recent I wrote, "Strange meeting"
Wheels turning on the wet pavement, she began to talk as she sat in the middle of my bicycle bars. She told me all the ungrateful broad crap: broken family, abusive boyfriend, brief dabbling in prostitution, and a kid somewhere in the South with a name that sounded like some plant. She was a grass smoker for sure. But I didn’t mind a lite sweet blue into my life.
“What's your name” I say.
“Sweet Blue” she says.
Holy shit! The parallelism! We stop off at a pay-and-eat just outside of Lincoln. She had to pee. I had to clean my ears of all that poor bruised-up crack she was whoring to my audiovisual. Tapping out a butt from the pack, I bring the tiny rectangle brown filter to my mouth and grip it between my top and bottom bicuspids. Then slowly pull it out to meet oxygen with flame at the tip. Ah the sweet blue moonlight as it mixes with the orange burning circle that hovers in the space between sky and ground in the night. I’m waiting for Sweet Blue under that sweet blue moon, the parallelism was killing me at this point.
It occurs to me to split. Leave the girl. She already gave you the fifty dollars she promised for the ride. You’d never see her again. Before I make-up my mind, her narrow hips return to my handlebars and the wheels crack on the pavement. Is she a hooker? I contemplate this as her red hair dusts my face. My cigarette is still lit and dangling from my mouth. Have you ever smelled burned hair? I used to put my sister's Hawaiian Barbie doll over my bed table lamp (a torturous scene in which either G.I Joe or HeMan saves her). Once Hawaiian's black hair melted on the bulb after I had fallen asleep before the damsel releived from distress scene. The smell never went away.
"Oh fuck lightbulbs" I say.
"What?" says Sweetblue.
I forgot a case of light bulbs at the gas station yesterday where I traded my motorcycle for this bike. These banana seats really fuck my ass up.