Monday, June 4, 2012

To The Horizon

By Mark Brocklehurst

It’s hard to walk for miles, day in and day out, on this crumbling pavement.  It’s my retreat.  It’s my freedom.  Boot soles are tired and worn.  The tanned leather holding the walls of these boots together is cracked and tarnished with road soot.  The crags in my boots, like the creases and lines in my hands and forehead, remind me of the detritus I stomp through on my daily roving.  I sure wish the sun would settle behind a few clouds this afternoon.  September’s sun is still blazing.  Hot.  This radiant heat piles bubbling beads of sweat on my upper lip to the tip of nose.  Damned black top sweats.  Should’ve taken that gallon jug of water and bag of ice from the bed of that navy F250.  Jesus Saves and Ford pisses on Chevy.  How convenient.  Yea, right.
                Hiding out in that big tomb in Wanamaker was a good idea.  No one saw me.  It’s an easy refuge.  I could sleep in peace without the raccoon and rat visits.  Damned night stalkers.  John Muir walked from Indiana to Florida.  Maybe I can take up his old path?  I need a proper meal.  The Wonder bread and Jif I took yesterday around 2 p.m. from that empty farm house just outside of town will only go so far.  It’s left me shitting bricks and cobby pebbles.  At least I had time for a quick shower and wank.  Thankfully, the old man of the house keeps a stash of vintage Penthouses under the sink.  Glad I found them.  Always look under sinks when in someone’s bathroom.  They’re treasure troves of secrets and goodies.  I’ll only take two and put the other six back.  They are a lifesaver.  Well, if a lifesaver is a right hand, warm shower, and a subtle cinnamon smelling woman’s bathrobe.  At this point, most anything will do.  It’s been about a month since I’ve been with a woman, confusing really.  I’ll head back to that tomb, RAYMOND STILES RIP 1898-1965, for the night. 
This pack is heavy and I need to sharpen my Ka-bar and Bowie knife.  Two potential clients tomorrow, house calls, and both are Mormon and disgusting.  These knives need to be extra sharp.  I’ll get acquainted with my water logged Penthouse queens again by Maglite tonight.  They’re the reliable lovers.  Silent, willing, and they eagerly flash their goods page to page.  Hopefully their time in the shower didn’t ruin the pages.  Need some action tonight.  Glad I took that handful of q-tips too.  My ears feel crunchy, and they make easy tender for small fires.  Swiped a sturdy one person sleeping tent in Jackson Ohio.  It’s easy to set up, and will make my tomb a cozier fortress for the night.  Shoud’ve set it up last night.  Too tired.  Tomorrow I’ll smile on my Mormon clients.  Maglite on.  Tent zipped shut.  Queens to my rescue…       
No Bio.

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