Flashbacks
New York Summer
a Micro Memoir Reprint
The greatest poet I ever heard was on a bus ride through Manhattan. His grubby hands flailed at the words pouring out on his whiskey-soured breath as my fellow passengers huddled away from the smell of his piss-damp clothes. Words flew free and wild, no safety net, no rules, no brakes. Despite the stench and sweat of summer and plastic seats, I was aloft on an American prayer. Was Jim Morrison alive? Here on the bus? Scaring these people? And I thought: This is what Jesus looked like, and the other people on the bus, they just can’t see it.
Originally published on one of my favourite sources of Micro Memoir Five Minutes Lit.
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