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~ Cruisin' down the Autobahn in my 6-4 Cabrio ~ ..

by julianna-eisner

.. Mouth full of semi-raw fried potatoes and dehydrated orange wheels, doesn't Mr. Appleseed come out of nowhere and plant a speck of a seed right smack dab in the centre of my reptilian cortex, but I pay no mind because Buddy has adored me for a whole five minutes until he rebounds               harder                         than an                                     addict discharged                                                     from                                                         forest-y methadone clinics                                                         in downtown cores                                                         poppin' Hilfiger blue collars                                                         yackin' it on the phones to guys named D, or                                                         D yackin' it to guys named Friendo, Jai, or                                                         Little Tim,                                                         buried from sucking back too much hillbilly                                                         heroin, while                                                         college girls sleep in their Sahara beds,                                                         saving up to buy bouncy trampolines with                                                         bouncy cheques,                                                         listening to lullaby coos of pimps and whores                                                         on the downstairs couch,                                                         gazing fawn-eyed at cavediums next to                                                         nobody cares muffins and syrup-y coffee                                                         canyoudropmeoff?                                                         outside of the seventh-story window of                                                        million dollar saloons,                                                         wearing blings and rings,                                                         purchased by wealthy husbands and                                                         traveling yuppies for their wives' veneer,                                                         eating breakfast cereals that go                                                         Snap! Crackle! Pop!                                                         for three square meals,                                                         refurbishing plastic containers                                                         on foot-stained broadloom,                                                         with cage and cagey roommates,                                                         throwing life rafts to bloated bodies in                                                         Great Lakes                                                         for the price of a debt,                                                         recalling waffling road trips,                                                         visiting one-man tents behind billowing                                                         smokestacks;                                                         I blew my brains out in an air duct,                                                         lost my life lifting up heavy floor mattresses,                                                         climbing out of basement windows,                                                         while hitch hiking mothers sing karaoke                                                         nursery rhymes by Janis Joplin,                                                         20 notes off-key,                                                         harboring skeletons in stairwells and rusted                                                         out Grand Ams,                                                         making friends in Tim Hortons after last call,                                                         dressed in leprechaun fatigue,                                                         driving like England at midnight,                                                         I spoke to a faceless man,                                                         whom I'll never get a chance to send a                                                                                thank you                                                        card...                                                        as for me? I never touched the stuff but I was too spent to care and was already floating on cheap Chardonnay and authentic vitamin D with my bindle stuffed to the brim so I thought I'd just American Beauty plastic bag my way through this one, cropped in floral, patio sunglasses, swirling and twirling on Ballet Boulevard until An e.ch-o-y sound in my left  ear I turned my head, slo-mo tracers flashed in warp speed,         the testa bursts open. ..
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Written by
julianna-eisner
Published
Mar 7, 2014
Time
4m
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