Bug speak bobbing in the rain-splashed puddle muck. Bizarre charged rhythms coining through the open slots of the chain link fence circling the public garden. Hammered flat, rubber mallet’d twice grooves vibrating like power lines, bouncing proper and dusty in the lamplight.
After holding that strangers gaze for too long, the exchange gets lost as your cab rolls by without any use of its brakes. You holler at the driver with scratched vocals, but the wheels keep rotating down the drenched pavement. So long ride. Hello long walk. As raindrops coat your eyelashes, as warmth from the toe’d and spliced movements in your mind broadens, sounds become blown down dandelion tails, floating up and in. Gracias, Didaflo. Take a bow.
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