Miles ahead the man that bent over and spat in front of my Pilot walked. He looked like a ragged, freshly fired business shaker that spent the night in a ’50s jazz club. Complex rhythms still hummed in his throbbing head. So he walked. Today there were no cars on the road and it’s about time in my opinion. If he came by yesterday there would have been too many distractions to keep that fantasy world rocking. Rocking on my porch and thinking about the spit mark — visible from my distance but slowly evaporating (it’s just one of those hot mid-October days). I’m sweating and eating and it really makes the ice cold jazz sound good. Good, okay just evaporate like you got somewhere to be! Now I can’t remember if I’m mad at the man or the spit spot. I guess they’re the same.
ryan meyer art rapid prose poem 1