From the tropical fish store to the highway overpass the street was an intoxicating drone of consumerist follies; some kind of shopping and hospitality backwater. Neither a mainstreet nor a dead street. Decline? Stasis? Was just so hard to tell.

And, of course, one is never sure whether it is something external or personal that connects an emotion to an object or place — or even whether one is experiencing an apophenic episode. All we can say is that over the weekend, for a 20 minute stretch, we experienced a section of American road so surprising in its sadness, humor, normality and decrepitude — that we had to pull over and walk it — compelled to mingle figure with ground.

over-hedged Best Western
bricky, fortified Good Will
a patch of park, repellent, for its scruffy tidiness
featureless sedans everywhere, like random ants
 all the while, a gray sky trying to turn over like a gray tortoise on its back
but mostly... signs
soppy signs
lazily beckoning signs
rotting, chipping signs
forgotten signs bleaching slowly
new fangled, last stitch, LED signs
a history of signs
“American Motel”
“El Rio Motel”
“Scarantino’s Inn”
“Hair Concepts by Jay Perez”
“FU House”
“The Document People”
“Kokos Hair Cut”
“Ship Shoppe”
“Inventors Support Center”

On the side of the Tropical Fish store an indeterminant man was smoking a cigarette; he was dressed like a poorly dressed child. We made uncomfortable eye contact. It grounded us out of our unconscious cruising.