oh, god i feel like writing

the first bolt of lightning came as i left the workbuilding--palpitated in cloud chambers, conspired to unravel the vast welkin over the next few hours, each consecutive thunderstroke like a loose thread, weaving under heavy [dirty]water flow [too much for you, thug], touch ground across the crooked city, i can see you from here Zeus--you thug, you slippery eel--i can see you, but i'll never catch you with this lethargic lens--

--lethargic, but nevertheless adventurous and you'll read in my obituary that one day i stopped at a laundromat at two am, curtailing my drive home for a frameshot in the rain that will not stand for a second chance [wash dry fold 90�!]--the moment not to arise again, the sun sets on instant inspiration [girl, she said. if there's one thing i can teach you in this life, it's that anything that is now or never isn't worth your time but she wasn't speaking of capturing chimaera like this bilingual laundryroom]--and i met with sudden death by gun, by shiv, by secret danger behind rusted chained link fence between building. who would care if it was quiet because there was no soul to be found as mine released to whereever souls go when they are cleared, the culprit running off with my hyundai full of girl treasure.

but! naysayers be damned; for that is no fact or i would not be here writing; weaving words together about the lightning and the eeriest laundromat this side of drew street. yellow calligraphy scripted on blue painted signs--in english, in spanish--and i walked in as the music began on cue as if it had been waiting for me all this time [orchestrated choruses and female carpenter crooning don't you remember you told me you loved me, baby. baby baby oh baby], as if this esoteric laundromat manifested in between electro-shocks... aqui.. por mi. my spanish may be terrible but i wouldn't let this one be an oversight, wouldn't pass this one by--not for the rain, not for all the trumped-up peril in this great land of Suburbia at Such a Late Hour. 'cause it feels like a grand secret, like sneaking in when a place is unattended and my footsteps are not audible, when the static energy is palpable--from the last load no longer spinning, now settling. or from the imagined encounter with the lone late-night patron who may be outside the backdoor about to step back in from a brief cigarette, damp under the leaky awning because there is no smoking/no fumar inside this mecca of laundry service, and what--what awkward pause, mutual once-over of the eyes for danger or stereotypical similarities, an advancing step or a �qu� usted est� haciendo aqu�?, or a was tun Sie hier?, why not a вы делаете здесь?, why stop there with a WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE and i think--no.
no, no. this is all wrong. a scientologist told me today that i can do WHATEVER I WANT and get away with it, and this is clearwater where his word is gold lam�. this is a public place twenty-fours hours of yesterday and the next and you and i, imaginary person of disregarded relation, state and colorcreed, we belong here. you do your laundry and i will snap my ridiculous pictures, slip out with a smile as inconspicuously as i slipped in.