bilocate — part eight (there you are then again)
. . . continued from bilocate seven (lighten-up & go thrifting for subterranean stars) . . .
You leave so early it's late, as if a judgmental projectile a slingshot has released, sent as a rogue interpreter, shooting back into various corrals of feral democracy. All wrong turns lead to familiar places, finally berthing in a town of meth gaits & shaved cats. You lived here for a few months as a child.
At a budget daily rate, the desk clerk crosses the motel parking lot to remind a houseless figure that only registered guests are allowed to pick through the garbage.
Next door, an inviting second hand store offers one unused item:
Heads bow as a mythical notion sacrifices itself. Above, a flight is grasped by the evening — it’s imagined as overbooked yet empty. On the ground, breaking news ignites canned responses as stoic sirens smolder with no rescue on the way.
Retro-punkers costumed in ironic housecoats & rocking magical forest fairy wings flit through the catatonic business district as if at off-campus elementary school recess years too late.
Arrive with your shirt on backwards. No one notices. Turn it around. Still, no one notices, but somehow even more.
From the nation's forehead freckled with temples, a sixteen-dollar salad bar cradles a sneeze guard-free bowl of shrimp as if defensive of its land-locked territory. An open-carry mom, in pleated shorts & sidearm, charity-shops & threatens in a frosted home-perm afternoon rage.
A freeway town built around piles of rocks clings to a deteriorating motel next to an OTB/bar & grill.
Inside the entertainment complex, ten or so TVs alternate between women's softball & men's golf except for one that flashes local business cards with a looped photo slideshow of smiling customers & staff, flat screen-distorted giving them swollen stomachs & mushroom heads. They seem to be having a good time.
Outside, the parking lot is pregnant with jacked-up trucks & low, rattling sedans scabbed in duct tape. A pink jumpsuit lights a butt & hops on a camouflage ATV, cutting across the lot past a full-grown goth smoking & sitting in the dirt next to a long-closed swimming pool.
A motel room curtain is pushed aside showing boxer shorts with a walkie-talkie watching the late daylight refuse to die over the growling interstate.
And why isn’t every movie, tv, or play producer not knocking down your door in search of a KICK ASS screenplay? 🧐
So many emotions wandering through a thrift shop, and life’s travels.