Gas station burrito
My initial instinct was to paint the horror that I experienced in the sacrilegious and abhorrent light that can only be attributed to a rating of no stars. However, upon further reflection, I came to the conclusion that I, myself held a certain responsibility in the matter.
It was a cold night in March, and I was north bound on the New Jersey Turnpike. Weary from driving all day, and resigned to the fact that the final slivers of my sanity had escaped me, I resolved it was time to stop.
My cheeks slightly flushed from the cold, I stepped into the doors of the Thomas Edison Service Area. This is no ordinary service area, but the final stop before performing a deed that cannot be undone. A final chance to stop oneself from entering the hellish wasteland of potholes; the inferno of brake lights that they call the Cross Bronx Expressway.
I rarely waste my time in the lines that accompany the regular fast food joints within the establishment. After you've been on the road for so long, lines are just another type of traffic.
Instead, I chose to go directly to the hub of the most seasoned traveler. An area with no windows and compromised lighting, occupied mainly by passing truckers and tradesmen; men who have places to go and things to get done, if you will.
I browsed for a time, waiting for anything to catch my passing eye. Then it happened. My eyes, and perhaps my entire being, honed in on a beacon of hope. A potential comfort to lessen the pain of the Cross Bronx.
In front of me sat a microwavable burrito of rice, beans and cheese. In my dazed mind, it seemed to be quite a nice balance of carbs and protein and certainly less risky than the taquitos that roll around in that little display case for days on end.
My decision was made. I paid for the burrito and placed it inside the gas station microwave for the instructed one minute and thirty seconds. At the time, I payed no attention to the gas station cashier who would occasionally cast me a glance that can only be described as something between confusion and concern. Reflecting upon the moment with a clear mind, it seems as though I missed a valuable warning.
I was back on the road, less exhausted and almost sane, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other holding the burrito. In that moment, the most fragrant spices and sweetest flowers could not counter the aromatic harmony and comfort that was produced by that burrito.
Unable to wait a minute longer, I bit into the burrito as the radio played the absolute banger that is "Low" by Flo Rida. It was a moment of near-solace where everything was almost okay. An eye in the storm, if you will.
The burrito was not bad. The textures and flavors didn't quite match what the smell had suggested, but I was hungry and the burrito warm. I finished it quickly and washed it down with a sip of Poland Spring, because I was not about to spend my hard earned money on a six dollar bottle of Aquafina.
I was ready for the Cross Bronx. Still, I did not want to go there, but sometimes there is a difference between wanting something and being ready.
In the beginning it was average. There were lots of bumps and the expected host of aggressive truckers and stupid people, but nothing tragic. I kept my head down and kept driving. Traffic was slow, but it was moving. All I had to do was not hit anything and I'd be through it soon enough.
It was just after the George Washington Bridge that I experienced that first twinge of pain. Initially, I thought little of it. The burrito may have crossed my mind but I quickly dismissed it thinking that it was just a coincidence.
Ten minutes later, I knew that it was not a coincidence. I was building up the remains of my stamina to convince myself that things were going to be alright. So what the gas station burrito gave me indigestion. Things could be worse.
By the Throg's Neck Bridge, things were even worse. I will spare the most concerning details, but this was the point that I truly began to worry. I told myself that I just needed to hold on a bit longer. Realistically, I was still at least an hour and a half from home, but in that moment of despair, even false hope seemed better than none.
I'd arrived on the Long Island Expressway and mercifully, the traffic was light. Suddenly, my preferred driving pastimes of complaining about the bumps on the road and wondering where, exactly, my tax dollars had gone, seemed obsolete.
I drove fast. The cops didn't matter to me in that moment. Instead I thought 'fuck it, let them come.' My entire being had isolated itself within the singular cause of receiving the twisting, bubbling pain in my stomach.
The Long Island Welcome Center couldn't come soon enough. Had it been only moments later, I may have perished. I ran straight through the doors, and through the middle of a foreign family that looked at me disapprovingly and muttered incomprehensibly.
It did not matter. In that moment, nothing mattered except receiving that pain; that absolute apocalypse that had been born from the gas station burrito.
After a period of resentment and betrayal, I have accepted that the gas station burrito may not have been a good choice. Better than the taquitos, but still a poor decision. To anyone who is still reading this, I warn you to stay away from any burritos in the gas station. Resist the temptation at all costs and remember this; sometimes it's okay to buy a banana or some crackers and call it a day.
Faces in the News
Set aglow on a winter's night
Bursting into amber flame
Combating eerie, mournful light
Darkness to which none lay claim
Huddled by the bricken ingle
Crouched upon a tired knee
Weathered fingers fold and mingle
Crumpling gossipy decree
Balled up in crinkling complaint
Laid upon the ashen floor
Serving to grow a spark so faint
To the warmth that all implore
Every row of text contorted
Stony faces in the news
Lies and hate and crime reported
Melted into inky blues
An ode to one who remembers
A greedy consuming roar
Cast away in floating embers
Smoky ghosts of modern lore
Every word is lost by morning
Where only ash remains
A modestly potent warning
To the press' bitter stains
Paradise
Dreaming we were sea
Swirling cloudless uncertainty
Daft to silken hands
Caressing us as we fall
Chaos holds a steady reign
As we fly against the moon
Holding fast against the light
Things are different tonight
Swathed in melted stars
You look so divine
Fallen drops of sunlight
Mellowed cosmic cascade
Plunging further down
Leaking from the sky
Like stars betrayed
Too lost to feel afraid
Heathens they become
Bound to immortal gloom
That the goddess of promises
Has failed to make right
Impenetrable paradise
Squandered long ago
We only see it now
Hidden in cruel delight
Salvation is a ghost
A shadow of the sun
Some may never see it
Until the time has passed
There's something about change
The unruly knight of time
Laughing in the face of fortune
Clashing with the known
There's something about change
Jesting at predictability
Severing bonds of promise
Spinning webs of progress
To dance in the streets of madness
And relish petty ire
There's something about change
Keening for lost desire
Hardened by blood and coin
Corrupted by lust of men
Cosmic fingers clench tighter
Steady lies the master
Kings enslaved and helots crowned
There's something about change
A cosmic confluence
Entwining time with fate
melon runners
Bump, thud and rumble
The melon runners take a tumble
Like a bullet from a gun
Up and down the stairs they run
Leaping high to catch a bug
Scrunching up the area rug
They awaken when their master calls it a night
After they've lazed all day in sun's light
Yet who can be the master
To agents of disaster?
Creatures designed to rule and roam
And saunter about a home
Creatures unnatural in their construction
Masters of chaos and destruction
Committing acts that physics should not allow
For one that weighs eight pounds and says "meow"
loss
Sun's flames reduce to embers
The sky is no longer blue
Darkness casts a silver eye
And in it I see you
Stars encrust the darkness
Among them you travel far
Still, there is a place you remain
Grasped by aching love
Deep within the ocean
Floating in the sea
Misty air surrounding
Will you come back to me?
Steady beats a bleakened heart
Empty in all but grief
Heavy is the chest surrounding
Yearning for relief
Birdsong beckons the day
Before the umbra is complete
Lithe rises the dawn
Darkness admits defeat
Shrouded by dappled light
In a kingdom free and vast
Welcomed by familiar hands
And finding peace at last
Running in the meadow
Dancing in the grass
Golden light surrounding
At least I know you're free
somber freedom
Down sets the sun
High rises the moon
Darkness casts a silver eye
And in it I see you
Where have you gone?
Will I see you again?
Ghost within the shadow
Held in memory
Deep within the ocean
Floating in the sea
Misty air surrounding
Will you come back to me?
Tendrils of light draw near
Lithe rises the dawn
Skies gray and shadowed
Grace us with a yawn
Strange feels the heart
Empty but still full
Always kept alive
By memories within
Running in a meadow
Dancing in the grass
Golden light surrounding
I know that you are free
Winter Light
Cast upon the snow
Shines a somber light
Soon the moon shall rise
Beckoning the night
Low lies the sun
Weary to the bone
Succumbing to darkness
A stranger to the throne
Steady reigns the umbra
All becoming shadow
Star speckled blackness
Casts a ghostly glow
Clenched by icy fists
A time of plenty quelled
Silence fills the land
Barren and bespelled
stuck
Caged within bonds of bone
Aches a thrashing heart
Spiteful and merciless
To sleepless eyes and leaden limbs
Murky darkness presses hard
Yielding little solace
Beneath the crushing weight
Bows the weathered spine
Upon a humbled back
The lashes never stop
A poison to imagination
All so devastatingly mundane
Infected by a crazed heart
Grieving what never comes
The frightened mind becomes ensnared
Drowning in its own creation
A sea of darkness
Swallows the withered soul
Combated by a light so dim
A single candle on the darkest night
Bedraggled hands thrust upward
Fighting to reach that light
A promise for something better
A guide within the mist
The glow grows larger
Any escape is heaven
Ragged bone grows hostile
Fighting for what could be
the biggest road
Glimmer in a mother's eye
Upon the first breath a stubborn cry
Soothed by a loving hand
Knobby knees and gangly legs
Every day is its own wild adventure
The world is a wonderland
Time passes and adventures thin
A path once wide is suddenly narrow
And none seem to understand
No feat will ever sustain
Where none can slow down to see
The world has become bland
Ever present pleasure and pain
Course through the spindly fingers of time
Falling back to murky sand