I come here not to be with people but to be around people. They call it many things, the antique district, hipster haven, that little death ridden road, etc. A good place maybe to watch them from afar. The wind carries the smell of bread. The wind spreads their smoke. Here it comes. And here come the high school kids, the type that have never seen a fight in their young lives, don’t say shit, don’t know shit, and are really loud. Spoilers of silence. People are being taught to be Americans again. It’s not the 90s anymore.
Will we take on seven days and nights of Bukowski’s rain? When I woke he was a little boy was throwing himself between his mother and father. “If you hit her again, I’ll kill you.” He spoke of the storms that never show their faces anymore. “We were trapped in our houses for a week straight and the men without jobs stared out the window waiting.”
Nice kids, I guess. My thing is to get annoyed like it’s nobody’s business. My silence is flattened. A modicum of excitement. A girl I think I recognize, then realize she’s just a girl worth watching until she’s gone.
Waiting on rain on lunch on gears to grind to their final hault. Then what? Then everything.