The Wheels On The Mental Bus

I’m on the craziest greyhound ever…and I’ve  been on rides going through the long stretch of Georgia before Florida sitting in the middle walkway section because there was nowhere to sit, but these people have lost their minds…

The driver told all the ladies not to kiss him. He used to be a police officer in Inkster, and there’s a lady wearing a hunter s. Thompson shirt and she said, “I’m not a Muskegon person, I’m just a person who lives in Muskegon”. The Bus Driver said “Uh Hmmmmmmmmm….”

And holy smokes I wish I wasn’t exhausted or I’d write this all down because it’s solid gold. He said “no smoking no cigarettes, no e smokes no crack pipes, and I said “what about a pipe pen?”  “what you talking about?” “ it’s a pen that looks like a pipe”  “shut up.”

“Let’s talk Detroit, what can you tell me about the rattle snake club” the lady in the hunter s Thompson shirt said.

“Heard it’s crazy another” lady said, “how do you get on wifi…hey boy… do you know? I remember the sixties?”

“The second riots…I kept saying I’m going to get me a Nintendo” the driver said

“It’s all politics, and ford was an anti-Semitic. But he’s from Dearborn, like Hitler, cause he can say he’s Austrian…” the Thompson shirt lady said.

“Man, Muskegon…this place…doesn’t anybody follow any rules” the bus driver said.

“Hey, its Muskegon, I’ve been to the hub in the D, you know, in the back alley bikes.” The lady said.

“I don’t know…. uh hmmmmmmmmm…I heard about that.”

“Man, doesn’t anybody shovel here, I feel bad for you folks in Muskegon, and I live in Detroit…”The Driver said.

“The deacon is nice, one time I was there..”

“Uh hmmmmmmmm…”

“I heard they’re burning the Heidelberg project…”

“Uh hmmmmmmmmm the government stepped in” The driver said…

 Head phones on. I’m too tired for this nonsense. It’s amazing.  Snooze.

Two years and so…

Two years now on this site and so I guess I should write something. I don’t want to write right now. I don’t want to think about words right now. I want to do something else but it’s too late for me. Woke up at two a.m and it was the same thing, but I guess I should write that it’s late and early at the same time. I woke up with a headache and dry skin, and there are piles of snow on the ground over the trees mid-section covering fire hydrants and I don’t like this keyboard, I still haven’t gotten a new keyboard. I’m profoundly humbled by a boring culture. I don’t enjoy the person I am right now, and I lost my wallet and the coffee is decaffeinated, and why does decaffeinated even exist? Every day you wake up is the youngest you’re going to be, and I was driving into town on the bus again, and again it was just me and this blind lady, and she was so nice and happy, or so I think because I don’t really know her, it’s just that she has niceness in her voice when she talks to the bus driver. I always sit in the middle and read or close my eyes and wait, and writing and my work and my life, it’s the youngest I’m ever going to be, and I was looking at all the houses and wondered how many of them were houses where people were reading and writing, and then I thought probably not that many and closed my eyes and tried to sleep. The night will soon be over and I’m editing a book written on napkins for a series of no interest, and editing my original adventures of a dying young man novel, and two years of this site and I’m not depressed or alone or excited or much of anything. I’m here and persevering in the winter and I’m the youngest I’m ever going to be. I’ll be on the bus again later today and I wonder what the point of any of this is, and I want to get high from my writing again but that just happens like everything else. I want nothing but to be left alone in a crowded room. I want people to read my words and that is all.

Thank you for reading. 

 

Random Source #3

Kind of interesting writer history that I stumbled across: Vonnegut said that he intended A Man Without a Country (subtitle: A Memoir Of Life In George W Bush’s America) to be his final work, and what I didn’t know was there was a book called, The Man Without a Country by Edward Everett Hale which was written in 1863, that book was ‘about an American Army lieutenant Philip Nolan, who renounces his country during a trial for treason and is consequently sentenced to spend the rest of his days at sea without so much as a word of news about the United States. Though the story is set in the early 19th century, it is an allegory about the upheaval of the American Civil War and was meant to promote the Union cause.’

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Thrown On The Streets Books (& writing, art, music) #7

Random page (unknown author) of old typeset on old paper, by a real good typist, and I’m not sure, I’m guessing this was a document for a class that (judging on the paper and skill) was written in the early 80s (but I could be wrong) using an electric typewriter (but no… my first guess was a Remington manual based on font) but I could be wrong. This was found during the great vortex of 2014 in the bus station parking lot (if you want to read the whole paper you can click on the bottom picture. If this is yours and you want it back, get a hold of me somehow. Peace)

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