Asphalt Slaves

Born like this, into this…
Bukwosky


Here she comes: it is past five o’clock and she is not even capable of faking a smile. Her hands reveal the verge of a nervous breakdown. “I have a couple of tickets back to childhood,” I lie, sipping boring, black coffee. We already know the lies. There are no wings powerful enough that would allow us to cross each others' rivers, and caress those soon to be scars. Wounds made of routine, the good morning kiss goodbye, traffic jams, broken dreams, tormentas, men with empty souls offering rides to the early pleasure and unbelievable comfort - women, giving away plastic flowers out of windows of vehicles that still belong to the bank: the commute to the cubicle's inferno.

But then, it is five again. And as she lies her head on my shoulders, I dream about all the lies:
As if we knew all the lies.
As if we could share all the wounds.
We know this train is going to Humboldt Park (the guns – the gangs – the gongs)
We know there is no car
no boat
no train
no return

to childhood.