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Transamerica

Day 48. The Cow Poke Day

on
November 30, 2011

Cheerios right outside my door. The breakfast nook is there and people are quietly pottering about with their sticky mini-muffins and 2% milk. I sit and scoop the yellow wheels from the white pool and gaze into my coffee. Bagel. Jam from a silver-topped packet. Cream cheese. Orange juice….


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Transamerica

Day 47. The Grintonium™ Day

on
July 28, 2011

In the cool morning air, the girl draws deeply on her cigarette. A lung absorbing beat, then a smoky, tired sigh as she exhales directly into my face. It’s an accidental discourtesy and she catches herself immediately. I blink with it, as she waves her hand between our faces…


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Transamerica

Day 46, The Ticker Tape Day

on
June 15, 2011

I’ve experienced the arctic chill of a cold look. The pyroclastic shiver of cold, hard cash sliding between the seams of my jeans pockets. I’ve heard tell of folks with cold, dead hearts, frozen to all including the docile faces of puppies. But lemme tell you this. There ain’t…


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Transamerica

Day 45, The Skeletal Day

on
May 7, 2011

The donut is stale. I eat it anyway. After last night’s too-lazy-to-schelp-out-for-food state, I can’t help but stuff it in my willing gob and masticate the shit out of it. My lips are no doubt dusted by its powdery spell. My brain, numbed by the action of blindly chewing….


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Transamerica

Day 44, The Gristle Grind Day

on
March 27, 2011

Meat tearing and re-tearing. The gnaw and groan of muscle and gristle as it fights against the protesting crank. The uphill. Actual uphill – not the slow, lazy yawn of Kansas to this very point – works against the motion like an irritating grain of sand in an oyster….


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Transamerica

Day 41, The Read the Signs Day

on
January 21, 2011

I don’t believe in signs. STOP signs, sure. They’re not wired to lie, set – as they are – in intersectional domination at the corner of ‘oh crapsticks!’, and ‘this is gonna hurt’. Hand on Santa’s grab bag, I believe in STOP signs.

No, I’m talking about those mumbo-jumbo…

Janeen McCrae
Santa Cruz, CA

Writer. Rider. This is where I collect the fruits of those two things.

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