The strangle holds fast

Ahh, the irish coffee saturday morning post. Wake up in time to miss the farmers market, which lends me an entire weekend off from work in Blanco, the drive between Blanco and Austin, The hot days outside for nine hours, and the sting in my heart from knowing that I'm passing off supermarket foods under the false pretence that its farm raised. (And i am supposed to lie to these fine country folk! Which is like lying to disabled or the mentally retarded! I feel so foul.)
making barely any scratch and paying for gas to get out to crotch-ass town and stand on a highway. But, it's something and it puts a few dollars in my pocket. But there's a metaphysical symbolic reality that always coincides with the actual one. In the actual one I am broke by the highway selling another mans goods undeer false pretences and spending my other night in the dark writing, reading, drinking and planning. Perhaps in my mythological existance I stand near a crossroad, a fork, and with old trunk or carpet bag await the next train out to some megacropolis where I'll be lead into a circle and be given compass' and shards of glass lens, watercolours and secret tomes. Probably not.
i do feel I'm more at a depot, with a 3-hour wait before the bus takes off again. I don't know if it's an Austin transit bus or renegade tug sneaking out of harbor, but nonetheless- feel I'm waiting, passing time before the train leaves. Who's driving this thing? It's always like this. Everywhere is a wait. Or maybe I'm actually correct. More than likely though, everywhere feels like you're only waiting until you get to a moment when you actually know that you're living....I'm here. Take attendance. Wash my bones, it's hot as hell and I need a good cleaning. Really it's been cheap casual sex, warm beer, broke ass on couch, inspired by Miller, inspired by music, swamp ass in the city since I got here.