Aftermath

The city starts to change around 11. By 3AM it’s another world entirely. The aftermath. Sounds like a vacuum tube. Shadows stretch out into nether realms where you can remember everything ever thought but never spoken. Images in darkness passing like night fog, tried to impart, slowly shaped and proven in the fires of passion and regret. "We need to talk," sayeth the desert pearl. The Bird, violetized in a magnetic sky matrix of sentiment prescribed by our throbbing pulse of compulsions. Or is that just a passing Wilco song?

People's behavior is determined by their environment. I never wait in lines. I’m in my twenties. My whole life has been a hunger strike. I resist the barricades of crowd control and DANGER KEEP OFF GRASS. That’s Gumption. That’s a hole you can’t step across. That’s a sea of broken dreams.

Stretch the boundaries and you find what's left of him in a wheelchair off Main. "He likes fruit salad, if you know what I mean..." The Bird nesting in the residence of criminal God. The enigmatic nature of our dreams. It’s okay. You don’t have to look me in the eye.

Poverty, prostitution, garbage lined streets of dust and rundown ranchero homes. The view from the pool. Splash my face with scorn. The view from the highway. Underwhelming cars overtaking trucks in installments on the freeway. My vision of the world scorched and haggard.

Greyhound handjobs. Greyhand hound jobs all cock and pull and crazy coin outlandish. Politely squealing "the British sank the Bismarck." Speak up. B Cup. Call girls and incomplete grunt sentences. Bail fast. Circuit disconnect. If you want them to hear you, speak softly. If you want them to love you, blow up in their face.

Madagascar through the eyes of a lemur. The Bird lost at sea in a giant squid dress. Gay black man scared to come out of his iTunes. He loves to bottom. Out fast. Outcast. Tanlines on my face from the mask and Damascus. Back to class. A giant dentist’s drill grinding into the great teeth of the universe. The jaws of time open wide. We see only so far as the longing abyss between us.

I wrote a long childish poem about all the words and walks and whispers, and when I cut away all the onion layers of adjectives and fuckall the only word left was; "schism," before I paused and erased that too.