The Middle
CLOSE TO COLLAPSING off the brick front ledge, a tremendous warp in the Little Caesar’s front glass. . . .rejected the middle of it all.
We walked through on a single worn wriggled dirt-bike tire trail; a snaked winding leaned off the shattered parking lot edge; through the empty corner, the lot back into the neighborhood that Sam and myself would trace bicycles into after stealing Skybox cards in the grocery store; in thee old Food Town; anyway, set back through the tiny forest or such next to the back of stripshop structures adjacent another, at the Little Caesar’s, at the very end, oh the corner set along the bright white-painted blockwall the trail ended; smoked there and whatnot; chowed on breadsticks and huge fountain drinks; smudged sauce in corner lips and lifted it, tongued back in. . . . and my body rejected it.
Between them trees - bike trails coursed too miniature, loose dirt mounds and ramps tracked almost unseen. So tiny and only inside the realm eww did we exist in glints, similar to those curious sights we would pierce through the dapple to hit the hills perfect; but neatly the same we’d pierce them same eyes (not Sam though) passing an orange glow shone brighter and brighter in intervals round opposite circles in the approaching moonlit darkness; me, Bowen, Garrison, Patrick Hamilton, this Mario Livingston, perhaps Elsie and a few of her girlfriends, others; toward and turned eerie, unreal, black-shadowed only, apparitions that bloodless night; when things came upon my head and mind and took control; and near crawled from the brick wainscoat with dried soil paste swallowing the altered haze, grease-cooked claustrophobia, up to the big orange glass window.
Inside, the neon reflected orange and busy bright confetti linoleum -blasted the timeframe, spread motion surrounded by fast-forward giggles as never before; these strange oiled somber faces mixed up the FRP stains and stainless steel between, goofed and ridiculous, stoned orange-eyed high crept and dizzied; so I went outside, me, onto the brick ledge with my palms down against the rough sidewalk, under the overhang; folded there to get blood back into my high head --pointed straight at the concrete; like all the circulation had stopped at the base of my neck; struck, twisted and distorted with the drizzled-in fantastic orange contrast melted, penetrating, the beams of the orange bright squints just instantly singed crystal visions of pizza putrefying.
Unfortunately, Mario, “man, I had the same thing happened last week. It was strange. I was like ‘never hitting a bong again’—to tell the truth I actually went like three days or so,” enlighten with this haughty voice and afro soft, and inserted impressions genuinely reflected, “but then I went to this Ekoostic Hookah party. Shit, I just fry myself from the funky fresh that clouded around me. . . . You aint weird - some things you just can’t figure out…… Hehe- You will break out of it here shortly, Lynk. Perhaps you too need music.”