The Gonzo Wolf

Someone screamed, “Oh my god,” in the darkness, but it’s impossible to know where the comma should be placed in the quote itself.

“Oh,” she exclaimed. “My god!”

Like it was HER personal god, and she found him or her doing something they weren’t supposed to be doing. Or perhaps they were in a group conversation, and she wanted to make a point specifically to HER god.

“Oh my, god” he imitated Takei.

Perhaps it was sexual, or violent, or violently sexual, or even sexually violent.

Coin toss in this neighborhood.

Sounded with the same cadence as the kid in Troll 2 IYKYK.

Perhaps she bit into a really spicy pepper.

Aliens? Anyone? Obama?

Werewolf?

There. There wolf. There castle.

I hear no victory howl or sirens.

Perhaps it was all in my head.

A memory.

Repressed or just globally boring.

Ninjas know nothing of blu tooth on city stoops and stairs.

I guess it’s cool that someone likes you enough to call you, sir. By all means, share the splendor of the spoken word with us, your fellow train travelers, no matter how intimate or vulgar the details.

And when you’re done, play that mumble-rap you recorded earlier and pretend it’s on the radio. I guess open mic is the pawn shop version of train rappers. At least passengers can get off the train. I’ll stay and tell you a story after I’ve finished two songs while you drink your expensive coffee.

Trapped.

Waste not; want not.

Also, every train rapper I ever met was white with prison tattoos and a jack-o-lantern smile.

Boisterous, miserable lot, the crackers of this country; myself included.

Or honkeys, but Google corrects it to monkeys. Sigh. Technology.

Every face tattoo is a corporate CEO wasted, correct?

As a funk-soul-brother dipped in white chocolate, I find neither of those words offensive. They have terrible origins, but sound like goddamned cartoon characters.

Please don’t sign me up for the “Cracker & Honkey” show.

Oh, wait. That was called the 2024 election.

My soul weeps for the atrocities of my blood, but the line begins at the tip-top and winds its way down.

Even worse; the white people who consider public travel “braving it” wan’t to speak to me about the MAGA movement, the president, or immigration.

Any chance to pay extra for private cars on public transit?

Right. They’re called cars.

White people, when placed in minority situations, will gravitate to color, whereas most other races tend to isolate.

The Watcher.

The Gonzo Wolf.

El Muppet Lobo.

Eating salsa twice a day doesn’t make me bilingual, and the color of my skin isn’t a billboard advertising my ideals.

We’re so racist as a race that we’re even racist to ourselves.

It’s a tough gig being a smooth infinite soul being with more dreams in his toenail clippings than most realize in a lifetime.

Strider.

The hooded Ranger in the corner tokin’ Old Toby; since I was old enough to recognize dishonesty in power.

“Oh my god,” someone screamed.

Amateur.

A real killer would’ve struck before the mouth opened.

This is the last time I work the drive-thru, Paula.