Traffic Jam

My thoughts are a traffic jam. On the neural super-highway of my clogged brain — it’s 5pm. Rush hour. When I close my eyes, thoughts of the clouds floating blanket me. Warped into images of Janice smiling, but her scary eyes and sharp eye-brows causing me to bite down on my teeth and raise my eyebrows. Honk Honk. Make way. As they crash into each other. Smoke emitting, each one vying for my attention.

I’m the camera man. Filming this whole mess. The future, the road to middle-age, littered with dead bodies of youthful dreams. Carcasses, rotting on the shoulder, the raccoons of reality feasting on the once-fleshy remains.

Screech, a thought stops. Boom. My peaceful-blue sky rear-ending an image of me performing at the Monrovia street fair, guitar in hand as my ears start to ring.

From the side, t-boned by my dad’s number appearing on my cell phone. 4 rings, before it goes away and I slip the phone back into my pocket.