shot left, after robot

I miss taking the taxis down Jan Smuts Avenue to the gym.
It doesn’t get anymore real than the dented soccer-stickered metal, the only barrier to you and kissing tar held together by kite string, your legs warmed by pure engine heat and its fumes, oh how i miss the fumes; so strong they slice your tongue into ribbons.
And the passengers, silent squashed faces of static between stops, except for the one man who said the black people he knew never found the time to gym because they were too busy working.

things to do.

between backpacking
and bungee jumping

Live fijian seas
and crazy fogs

exposures and
sunrise over nostalgia

scaramouche fandango
and konichiwa

a new arabic tongue
and freestyle butterflies

everyman’s Everest
and the open road

between city living
and smallville.

you want to
lose yourself in someone.