No beginning or end with little respite or separation between; this treadmill adds inches to already accumulating baggage (and it started as such a glorious day!).
Can this be sane?
Dig the scene; dirty windas down in open celebration, 21 gun salute, brothers-n-arms ripping down THEE 'merican hiiiiiiiiigh-way, pumping diverse stereo soundwaves, capable of almost anything... 'cept dealing wit Tha Man...
You've just left South Station said the sign; where they fighting for every square inch, lump & bump, axe ta grind, before our puttering vehicle is shuttled down another side-street-dump lot- littered with graffiti and fast food laser-light beams,
We come to an even brighter clearing. The bird had landed. Men working.
We come upon a yellow booth, peeled stickers splattered, automatically it spits out a yellow ticket. There is a stranger lurking in the background beside a sign that reads: Everyone Pays a Toll! We gaze up into two black coals that do not seem to share our propensity for the possibilities of a brand new day, but lend what we can for support.
"Pretend to play," I say, or was that just a thought? Lonely island eyes need sumpin' on a road to nowhere.(Making it through another day of gray, handlin' people and they change; consumed by toxic waste is no way to spend a day!).
Then...finally...we were free! Ticket to ride safe and snug, held under the notion of Democracy in the felt visor...Zeppelin vibe climbing...passengers vibing, a la Kerouac and Cassidy on the open road. Miles stretching. Blazin' sun sending messages of colour and vibration down a tingly spine while the hairs stand on end. We set forth toward the flaming horizon.
The music continues to rise above a spotted jungle of concrete vipers vying... "cryin won't help ya...praying wont do ya no good..."
Pines line, straight, in a stretch on both sides of the road...-gazing down, mildly concerned, parents gathered 'round the cluttered roadside remains, scattered, as the traffic slips on by unaware...
Neatly outlined in and among the design, members of the BSP, on the move, winding the traveler's way, watching that prized possesion slowly slip, slide and fade away, lost behind the night clouds settling in, released from another burning sky... Say goodbye!
Hey wait, in a flash, was that just the ticket? Question...confusion...panic...why had it flown out the window? We were good people...looking one to the other, up to where the ticket had once been and back again. How could this happen? Wasn't this road paid for anyway?
Holy Darwin! What were the immediate plans for survival?Question...confusion...panic... That orange and violet sure is streaming....when the clouds move...dancing in diamonds and peer-row-wettin on the shore of new lands...
While we sit at a total loss...it had all turned out wrong! Where had the open road gone? The ability to walk alone in unfamililar territory, barefoot, if only to taste the passing winds? Could we ever get it back again?
Everything may appear normal but it's not...passing a boxcar Volvo and then, whirling into the middle lane, an irridescent V-dubs van pays us little mind, smoke escaping.
Where do angels go when they know it's time to fly the coop? Suddenly to be filled to the gills with a glow that quickly becomes a sea of cherry red break lights impeding the flow, rupturing any chance for immediate gain or security, much less serenity. ...unto a silent soliliquy... Out of the question! We shall see 'bout redemption...speeding to pass through hoops and iron crested carefully crafted parameters: time honored art as form to hang on a mantle and greet the people with rigid lines and a fee; a wicked design with a new promise for a betta toe-maw-ra!
We pull up alongside a giant winda and the vehicle comes to a stop. We gaze into a tiny green tank. The machine, a late edition model of the infamous Big Pig, huffs and puffs but does not blow us down. There is a woman in her late 40's, road weary, caked with makeup and oversized jewlery who bends down low, illustrating a decrepit timeline, before hissing,
"Yaaaaz, Mumma Sez-Main, can you even try to understand?"
It wasn't beginning well...
"When we left South station on this here, bee-you-to-full day to do nothing but play....a proclamation if you'll allow Ma'am-"
"-Ze teek-cat, verst!"
Slow ennunciation.... wicked ways...we were in for it... Wasn't this road paid for?
"Ze teek-cat, or, veil charge, lungth uv road. No teek-cat? None?"
It was with our last Lincoln parted that we rode on in silence. The Length of the road?
...and it seems like we've been paying for it eva since...