Chi
Blue Eyes On The Road
It was 7:00 am and i was on the road for Chi. Boy I was far from 66, but I had not a dime and my thumb was my only ticket through America. I had been in this for a while, Frisco in winter, Nueva Orleans in more winter. Chi in summer, New York any time.
I had just ran the hell out from Memphis Tennessee after my money was out, and a black man from north had picked me in the highway. He had resumed to dump in movement after I repeatedly insulted his god. Now I was on the road for Chi, in the middle of god knows where. I had fallen asleep and my location was a mystery, though it looked like West Virginia, maybe Ohio.
An old Lincoln car scratched the horizon. I was almost sad to get a ride when the blew my face on a chilly America Morning. But gee! What I had to see before Chi! The black car pulled over and I dragged my dirty feet and sneakers through the dirt.
"Where you heading?" A high pitched voice asked with me already opening unlocked door to side seat.
"Chi!" I screamed throwing my bag, sack and guitar on the back seat. I set it all for long miles, making sure it wouldn't pop out on a turn of the wheel.
Finally I glanced over the driver and her surely endless to come, stories of the road. Every driver has one, at least one.
She had already started the engine when I noticed her blue eyes pitching over the road. I had been in hurry enough to miss the screechy frenchy, slash, British, slash, something, that fell into Canadian. I recognized her the second she looked my way. She was the same ol' musician with squared blouse of west farmer and blond short hair.
She wasn't talking. I was a stranger. My hair was longer than she could have recalled, and it was to scruffy to tell from straight to curly. My pupils were brown coffee and I traveled America with a white union shirt two times smaller and jeans with holes and sewn empty patches.
I was no one.
I had just ran the hell out from Memphis Tennessee after my money was out, and a black man from north had picked me in the highway. He had resumed to dump in movement after I repeatedly insulted his god. Now I was on the road for Chi, in the middle of god knows where. I had fallen asleep and my location was a mystery, though it looked like West Virginia, maybe Ohio.
An old Lincoln car scratched the horizon. I was almost sad to get a ride when the blew my face on a chilly America Morning. But gee! What I had to see before Chi! The black car pulled over and I dragged my dirty feet and sneakers through the dirt.
"Where you heading?" A high pitched voice asked with me already opening unlocked door to side seat.
"Chi!" I screamed throwing my bag, sack and guitar on the back seat. I set it all for long miles, making sure it wouldn't pop out on a turn of the wheel.
Finally I glanced over the driver and her surely endless to come, stories of the road. Every driver has one, at least one.
She had already started the engine when I noticed her blue eyes pitching over the road. I had been in hurry enough to miss the screechy frenchy, slash, British, slash, something, that fell into Canadian. I recognized her the second she looked my way. She was the same ol' musician with squared blouse of west farmer and blond short hair.
She wasn't talking. I was a stranger. My hair was longer than she could have recalled, and it was to scruffy to tell from straight to curly. My pupils were brown coffee and I traveled America with a white union shirt two times smaller and jeans with holes and sewn empty patches.
I was no one.
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An experiment.