/lit/ - Literature

1/2
I catch myself sometimes:
Driving in a fancy sleak car, fast, propelled by techno-capitalist-fat-cat-cash-pop Ethanol.
The highway points west.
The sky says its closing its eyes for some fuzzy night watch.
Deep west a cold october whistle roams restless amongst some trees.
A dog barks outside by the difting ghost clothes line. He saw the shade in the shade.
open
says the neon waiting at the corner.
Hush
says the engulfing silence.
The engine growls stoned like the breeze is warm on a night that chills.
Is it too late for coffee?
Hunched eyes with bags wrapped in heavy coats now past midnight.
One eye turned purple, echoes of fists and pavement from the fight.
The waitress smokes.
Her soul captured in bleak illumination reflecting from the dark liquid in my cup.
Her face in the back of the station at the end of the street warming a memory.
The road begs a thought.
Sweeping side by side with humming buzz electric lines.
Some rustic spirit guiding itself from shoe to shoe hangs from the wires.
But I pass to fast.