Over/Under – Another 500 Word Bomb

Energy water, vitamin juices, electrolyte condensed drinks, enhanced amino acid sodas, weight loss milks, starch substitute milkshakes filled with guava derivatives… and they say cigarettes are bad for me.

It’s easy to watch the blinking eyes and stiff lips from my spot on the stairwell. The steel is cold and damp from tracking feet and morning showers so I set a section of my newspaper onto the third step up before I sit down. I lean over to the aisle and inspect. Faces buried in representations of other faces buried in the slow death of ego-rich 21st century America… commuting from the ‘burbs to the city, living the dream at both ends, injecting themselves with digital chats and celebrity gossip and the almighty sacrament that is our dollar bill…courtesy of Uncle Sam’s cooking… blindly foaming at the mouth, half dead & compeltely duped, they bob like sick pigeons back and forth in their polyurethane seat cushions, lit up under a fluorescent sky. I open up to the lines for Sunday’s games and pull a pen from out of my pocket and laugh. Their eyelid clicks and button beeps and sick-like-a-one-legged-bird meanderings had lost their intrigue… I can really smell the wretched bastards.

Circles, scratches, winners, losers, furious and zoned in… rusted tracks hum contented like the twisted fates watching from above.

I’m not sure how warped I’ve become listening to these rumblings, bouncing around the slipstream, avoiding contact with any of them, as much as possible… the lotus mind, the top of the three, squawks at me over what is it I am to do… what is my “doing” and how can I “do” it? Future dreams, larks… this train cannot be my ultimate destiny…a middle voice, the monkey, rattles off the parlay hits I’m looking for this week, calculates my average payout of teasers from the first six weeks, wonders why the moneyline has tanked so much on the Ravens… it examines the Steelers, off at -6, the Bears getting a whopping 3.5, New England the eternal -7 favorite and Jacksonville raking in all the mojo at +10.5, moving from 10… I made too much coin off of San Fran comebacks and back door covers last season to lay one down on the West Coast red sharks… my belly rumbles with the lower mind, the mineral master, churns in on itself, sick and depraved, atavistic and tired of computer screens and bank balances and the dried up oyster beds that line the city streets of mankind… a diseased mendicant, praying for death and the final payout…

…the conscious swirlings pick up their pace and I am ferociously over-matched. I flip to the end of the Sports Section and decide to lay off the Monday night bank saver, the unicorn, the saving grace at the beginning of another work week… no I’ll wait until next Sunday, to grind, grind, grind… karma feels too fucked to pick a winner this morning.

The station approaches, our course is locked in, and now life and limbs are flailing and asses up from the sticking plastic and eyes keep blinking down, a predilection for more pain, less questions and the same amount of fabric softeners to ensure their (the restless ego’s of economy) closets remain portals of great endeavors…

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