Where do I begin? A word? A story?
Fools! Fools! Marching in with tools and tools. You chart the course and measure the weather, and yet it rains and scrambles every attempt at control you make. It scrambles your brains and all your tools are silly and vein. It is morning, you plan. It is lunch, you plot. It is dinner, and now you count what you have got. You rub the belly. You pour the wine. You check your wallet and count your dimes. Somber merchants surround your table. Frazzled restaurateurs pass the butter. Don't you ever want to see it all crumble? Don't you get tired of the big dumb show? Don't you want your silly guests to go? Pack your things, people, the rain has lifted. Gather up your important clothes and scattered estimates. Plot out your stepping stone lives elsewhere.
Tribal chants bounce off the concrete community walls of this endless city. This endless destruction. This endless tree genocide that is civilization. Oh so uncivilization. Reverberation. Tribal encantations. Melodious curses pounded into the stratosphere with drums and wooden blocks. Terrified white folk quickly construct bigger guns and stronger shields. Tribal chants vibrate the authority structure until it crumbles. Fat women rush through the debris in search of ice cream. Twitching men dig through garbage heaps for old pornography, or at least, heavily suggestive advertising. SOMETHING that they can jerk off to. Broken white folk scramble like electrified zombies for fixes. For one more hit for their lame, ungodly addictions.
A jaded take. A busted rake. A winter wind from the brutal north. I'm sleepy to the bone. I take myself to the store to buy my specific brand of almond milk. Seagulls huddle on the tar, trying to soak sunshine warmth. I get my milk-like products and go Starbucks. Every optimistic minion is getting in my way. City planners ensure congestion. There's a homeless guy dozing off on a bench near the Starbucks bathroom. He has a coffee, so he's legit. I ask him if he's sleeping rough. He says he is. I ask him his name. I can't tell what he says. His teeth sabotage articulation. I ask him if he has plans for Thanksgiving. He says not now. I give him $12 and leave with my coffee-products. I get home and tell my wife all about him. We talk about how scary it is to approach homeless people and dream together about having homeless folks over for Thanksgiving. Then she says she loves me.
Round and round racing against eachother, fighting for the attention, the music gets louder as they go round the caresole, I am overwhelmed by fatigue but I cannot get off, the thoughts won't stop racing infecting my mind changing who I am, I have to choose but the choice is no longer mine, I can't stop what I have started, I won't stop it