Monday

Monday, and everything feels like it’s broken. The phone doesn’t work. The voicemail refuses to disgorge its lies. The Internet evades, never giving more than thin rumors of what’s in store this week.

A man drives down East Carson with a flat tire and an engine wheezing like an empnysematic.

There are people out there who are profiled, harassed and kettled by the police in every which way. There are people who have no freedom, wholive exposed, who have no rights…

Then there are middle-income, middle of the road, inocuous white boys who will wonder how the cops knew to check him for weed. You can smell it from five feet away.

This is Monday, fleeing hillward for connectivity as the sky turns to slate.

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