Evening writing exercise

Tunnel first. West by bus and into the sunset. The neediness of everyone still wringing in my ears. The sound and the feeling quelled by slow doses of small, well known midwestern craft.

I’m coming home. Plain and unicorn ice cold and full of sweet. Hard to read. You feeling this?

Writing again, in public though in hiding. Still unsure of what a cogent thought actually feels like. Drivel. Stop. Go.

Beer review. KBS is good. Holy shit this bus almost crashed. Like really. Almost crashed. But KBS is not that good. I mean seven bucks for five ounces good. At least it didn’t spill. The beer or the bus. Both could have ruined my night.

Joseph Campbell keeps arriving. All our mythologies are disproven. Our consciousness refutes them. Attribution. It’s his. As we live we imitate. We become. Trip. Then. Trip again.

Strip mall and the cosmic order and the great games people played. If I did radio I might be even happier. Pop. It means so many different things.

Sun. Set. Done and gone. And I am almost home.