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.
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.
Tough mudders shock the sprocket shoppers. Running through the path resistance. Smiling smugly at the bumbling bobo drinking bubbly. You elbow and nudge through the judicial sludges, past the jovial judges. Tough mudders, apathetic mothers. You topple out the melodious spout. You correlate the lady's fate to her shuffling dietary strategy. He's doing backflips in small rooms without damaging the chandelier. You marvel at your ability to spell "chandelier" on your first try without using spell-check. Now you are muddling tough through the mud. It's a tough-guy town and you are tying your boots. It's a town full of tough women, and you are letting your beard grow. You are fumbling through the fridge for some bubbly. You are constructing a funny argument for your jovial judges.
I have some secret audio files buried deep in my digital data structures, obscured from all casual observation. They are voice mails from someone that I once had tender feelings for. And by "tender," I mean "category 5, level red, insane." But I listen to them and, though I've healed and moved on, there is a slow burn the lurches in me when I hear it still today. I have these old letters, too, from people who I have loved in the past. Letters from, I believe, truly, important people who loved me, too. They say nothing too profound, but they are profound to me anyway. They are ghosts on paper. Spectre-Letters. Linguistic evidence of connection. I keep them safe. If my house were to burn to the earth, and if the letters burned there, too, I would survive. But I would miss those ghost-fragments dearly. Maybe I should just let go of them now. Maybe I should foster future ghosts.
I'm here negotiating my early release. Trying to get the gadflies to leave. Trains shuffle along the track. Gadfly passer-bys smack their snacks. Asian fish people attack the math. Burly openers draw the fire back. Inhaled me in the swirling womb. Pushed me to the outer moon. Coughed out feelings choke the fool. Burning questions smoke the room. I'm here negotiating stupid concepts with neurotic walkers. Trying to get the gadflies to leave. Melodic mothers swallow their babies with nursery hums and sleep-inducing song. Rain comes and goes and the passer-bys don't know which mood to throw. Sunshine cracks the surface of the sky. I'm here scratching the silver shavings off the lottery tickets of my mind.
Gold-diggers laughing at their shaking pan, sifting sand from yellowish nuggets of hope. Gold-diggers with the slippery fingers and the sweaty crevices, keeping secrets of speculative spots and digging holes. Gold digging old men, with a long shot strategy to compensate for their histories of lethargy. To compensate for their social rejection. To bury struggle once and for all under a mountain of quick wealth. Old unshaven men still angry at their drunken fathers shaking their wishing pans, gazing magically with their omniscient eyes. Today the sun is out and they attend to every sparkle. Scrap the gasps. Shrug the shoulders. Toss the sand. Refill the shaking-pan. Refill the hope chamber. There goes that damn woodpecker again, pounding away at his tree.
This is a roving captain infiltrating the fatherland. This is a machette guy on the motorcycle, sneering at a passerby. That is the magnet bride encircling the wounded knight. Infiltrating the warrior zone. Obeying the blowing winds and the hidden declarations of the motherland. “When something happens, seek me.” This is the musician wannabe limping through the foyer room. Guitar strings are pluckable. Doorway dwellers step inside. Crouch. Creep. Sneer. Outcast punks are aging before my eyes. Raging. Fueling inevitable heartbreaks. Oxidizing desires and lubricating their trigger-happy hearts. This is the fatherland. That is the motherland.
THis is the vortex. I’m slipping in to the fourth set. Swinging like a villain in the porch deck. Recreating myself for the hundreth time. Establishing my rule through the scorched earth. Overcoming challenges like a prize fighter. Dwelling on my failures for the last time. Embracing pleasures, escaping measures, pushing back the Bible thumping forces. Wishing for another prime. Hoping for a little time. Skipping out on banal social cohorts. Things are shaking loose out of their foundations. Traditions crumble down to dusty block things. I’m in the vortex. I’m in the fourth set. Drawing on my inner child hope-sets. I’m casting visions and I’m and reeling in realities unforeseen.
Let’s get together over tea and maybe we can talk this through. My sarcasm was meant with the highest intentions of love. Belief clouds cause real rain. Thought patterns drive real decisions, and I was just trying to make light of your impending doom. Theology is no laughing matter. Priest jokes are for drunken juveniles, not for serious people sipping tea. I post a comment, you respond in anger; then I defend myself. Things are complicated when they don’t need to be. Things are simplified when they can’t be. It is easy to splat-crackle on the frazzled cracker. It is wishless to whisper amidst the blended seekers. I speak too loud. You calm me down. I sip some tea. You strain to cause me pain. I shrug it off and now I sit back down again.