Johnson Creek dreams

Out Sunday, Starbucks lot, cruise Broad – down, down, down – Pixies so loud I can’t hear the news. Eeee! Left on Pacific, the art shop’s closed, someone said, “This monkey’s gone to heaven,” and I’m all ears. Fresh pound of Italian Roast passenger seat, wild poetry and my old zines, back from seven years when I was you know where with you know who. Previous weekend I was all-in shining and straightening the Camry’s interior. This weekend the front seat’s a closet. Rolling thrift shop. Writing down the bones.

I’d prefer not to explain myself, and you feel free to have the mental health cats on speed dial. I know I wouldn’t.

Is it okay to forget some of the agreements I’ve made with myself? My fingers ache, my brain’s more than weary, my bed laughs as I’m crawling in – “Another quick visit, kid?”

Most everything is punk rock when you look from the corner of your eye.