Conversation with a Hobo
A Splice of writing from a year ago:
I’m not content, Charlie. I’m not running from the Russians anymore, though I am always looking over my shoulder, and the sinister, killing, defensive, chained to the cement wall feelings always tend to creep in, (they always will, seeing what I have seen,) and you would think that not running anymore would provide my mind with solace, but I am just not content with myself anymore. I’ve found my spot, stay tight on the rail, yet, I’m wide-open and getting out. One Percent is me, an anarchist waging their own law against the lawmakers and the police-assholes-of-the-state. An Anarchist, Charlie, and, though I don’t care if this world has a place for me in that, I still search for brotherhood and a woman. Lone traveler, as I always have been, machete in hand, whip in the other, torn between the two worlds, I swim deeply in the shallow waters of the minds of people- people who pass me by and leave me be, run away from me and avoid my suggestive nature. I scare away even me, you see? And that is ok with me, but not ok with me.