Friday, May 29, 2015

5 29 2015 - Chapter 11 - Driven


Chapter 11



out the Whole Foods…
a character…

“ ‘oly smoke. ”


he said it
upon getting hit wit a carrot
that blew out the bag blondyn was holding on the run.

“kid jus’ rip that stash?”


she said it
upon seeing the way
blondyn juked
the pedestrians, traffic, construction zone
before swinging the corner without trace.



come now, poodle, thought blondyn.
ought know by now
city streets no place for fluff.
but there was plenty to go 'round,
that’s one reason the kid aimed his game
on running a razor fine line
to cut through it—
straight to it—
hauling heel to toe 'n hard
for the CopyDesk
where blondyn was scheduled to promptly set to work.

youth scoot like top-gun
on a crusade to save mankind
pressed for overtime,
but what was it all about?

somewhere long the way,
blondyn saw Writing
like a fortune 500 figure
saw Enterprise,
which given certain considerations,
had whisked blondyn in peculiar situations
some of which—
he’d finally decided—
made for copy
worthy of writing.

seeing as writing required the kid
to be in for the ride—
and since the story of his day by day
was the only story he could sincerely own/align—
blondyn finally had come to terms
with taking a feature role in the show.

o mama.

he promised the ego was Grade A Okay
Lean-Tame Certified.
just time to try something new.
that make it any less a crime?
in this day and age,
probs no.
but in Skyscraper Metropolis,
waking up entailed friction
somewhere 'long the line…
and freestyle rhymin’ could be such a chimin’ thing.
given that realism,
flash journalism—
social media novel—
narrative reflection/refraction
on the life + times.

but honestly why?
how come?
what’s it all about anyways?

above all things,
blondyn’s ultimate dream
be to awake each day
to that compelling future—
some way by which
to commit his essence
to a fraction of

The AEternal

via a sense of mission—
a duty to confide in
via gravity to explore,
interact with,
and derive some depth of value to deliver
and potentially
set another free…

couldn’t find it between 9-5,
nor in the restaurants,
beauty salons,
or the other 'odd-jobs’ he’d worked
in those yonder past askance moments of the hustle

all the while
he’d been chasing after
that purpose
to lasso the whole life + love of him
and pivot upon his routine existence.
daily bread to extend beyond.
to think it dawned upon him in sleep
that high-speed literature
was the place he had to be—
it was the whole reason
that blondyn was wheeling to the CopyDesk
like a gazelle with a cheetah hot on his prance.





-Red Wing Boots, upon slamming brakes on street

he stepped out the smoke,
black tar, clinging on his step,
as he approached the building.

“well look at that,” he said. “Gotham West Market.”

the CopyDesk.
time to get to work.



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