"Breakdown On I-75" - Illustrated

Illustrations by Robert Zinni

mile markers, billboards, a lack of fresh thought.

white text on black, one nation under “me” – god.

jesus, you were right, he’s a real character huh?

next stop: atlanta, three hundred and a lot.

billy brakes out of trance.

you don’t look too good man.

well bill, I have to admit, I was thinking about saint patrick’s night on siesta key next to that sleeping angel, amber, a-name, and that non-stop ringing. rum flavored sweat stuck to my throat, while I listened to long range nervous per usual stammer something about stuck with no ride, when she remembered that I couldn’t drive, on account of my being irish, plus, I’m kind of far away. (not far enough I guess.)

I couldn’t shake that shaking voice to gain some relief, to re-route the train. (when my pinky finger hurts i stab myself in the leg.) so I started recounting each place that we went and everything that I ate.

(so I’m doing well.) tuna at daiquiri deck, snapper at the haunt, but when I reach that nameless bar in saint armand’s circle, I’m at a loss. all I see are those little dancing girls in patriotic green outfits that moved awkward as hell to celtic music.

that tiny one rounding with a green plastic hat, begging with her eyes. (I must have given her a dollar.) it’s been two hours, and all I can think about is trying not to think about that bar. those scared little girls and that song about the irishman who accidentally married his cousin. salt, sand, banana and whorish perfume.

two hundred faces simultaneously sucking disgusting shots that tasted like cake. (a-name dragging me to the water.) it’s a giant pink elephant that sure as hell can’t fit in a two-door.