airport restaurant
waiting in an airport restaurant…where fearful men use their hair to hide their foreheads…
it’s a stasis…a womb from which the melee can be observed…it appears even more frenzied than it felt when I was in “the shit” (to borrow the nomenclature of: The Kids)…
now I enjoy an Italian Sweet Sausage from a woman named Jodi…it is just the fix to steel my courage and suppress my shakiness…
inspired, I dive into my messenger bag for my pad of paper and feverishly scribble down some words…
no matter, most will be discarded once reason is restored and sugars are balanced…
the sausage comforts me as I contemplate the possibility that I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life (this is no small feat; though many things change, the “Biggest Mistake of My Life” competition remains contentious week in and week out)…
it is the perfect salve…
though there is no dignified way to eat it, my dignity becomes less and less relevant in the embrace of an L.A. local IPA…
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