The Tire Showroom
Wigga wigga wigga goes the sound of the hydraulic drill, as my tire falls to the floor like a dress after a cocktail party. I can work from anywhere, and so I do. The work might be a client, a proposal, exercising literacy, or listening to Aphex Twin and getting schooled in what a bad boy beat is. Work it work it work it work it.
I create new routines routinely, and new habits habitually.
Auto mechanics cannot stop my hustle. Couches cannot stop my hustle. As a pluviophile, the rain only makes me stronger. Godzeera could probably stop my hustle, but I don’t live on the water.
In the quest to never be today who I was yesterday, and never see today through eyes seen before, I perpetually plunder consonance constantly. That’s one of my things there, that consonance thing. I used to think it was dumb, then I realized a distinctive voice includes the signatures and nuances. “Own that shit,” somebody said sometime.
I’ll stay in my lane, but if I get caught behind a bus I’m swerving. I’ve got my swerve on.
Hurry up and wait.
Wigga wigga wigga. Reeg. Thunk.