Bus Ride Dream
By Smeagol
Riding in the back of a Grayhound bus amongst the loose change of a fading nation I sit next to a family of Native Americans who smell somewhat of damp charcoal. Drudging along America's lost highways counting raindrops as they crash on my window like minature kamakasi pilots I can almost hear the "Bonzii!!!". The blacktop is old and potmarked causing the bus to sometimes shake like a wrapped Christmas present in the hands of a 5 year old. It seems like this bus is my ferry across the river Styx and the driver, an fossilized mexican who dreams of his lost youth, reaches out with skeletel hands for his gold piece. Reality seems not to have made it back on board after the last stop at "Nick's Racoon Rest" where a snake whispered in my ear that today was a good day to die. Nighttime falls like a lead trap door the cacti along the road start to sing "It's a Small World" while the Indians dance and slowly fade into spirits of the dead. I should have flown. Written June 27th, 2001 © on Jun 27 2001 09:28 AM PST 0 • 13
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"Riding in the back of a Grayhound bus..."