There is only so much Billy Squier you can listen to until your mind decays into a puddle of evolutionary goo. And here I am, like some middle aged mutant ninja turtle dipping deep into the vats of neon trying to hack and destabilize the life handed out in the soup kitchen line.  Its way too easy to feel the disdain.  There’s a plethora of websites devoted to it, snapping pictures on the down low to report each siting like lions swatting flies off in the wild.  

I am a victim of the force of nature.  I don’t deny it.  Why should I?  Why would anyone in the face of death and certain destruction adopt any semblance of meaning or coagulated structure?  Why can’t anyone accept the inane nature of sounds, textures, words, or feeling?  The signal to noise ratio thats way off the scales.  The random cries of the homeless on the street, masked together by some dime store vanilla tape into a cat call of a commercial siren. 

All of it sticks in your brain when you live deep within here.  The horns, the yip yips of yapping dogs, the snaking of football sized rats, and the broken accents in too many dialects to mention.  It makes whatever you say… whatever you think… into a mash of brain damage… into a circuit burned motherboard that yaps like an early twenties mental patient plagued by shock treatment and trepanation.  

Its what’s been eating at the back of my skull for weeks.  Its something I think I dare to talk about only because it calls me out like a punk bitch in a knife fight.  Its the blink before the hammer cock.  The trigger finger twitching.  Its the realization thats dragging like the muffler on the asphault.  Its the hard compression on the ear in the final master.  Its fatigue.

To bring it to the most derogatory of terms… its people you used to fuck that you see every day, who are now the enemy incarnate.  Rather people who used to fuck you, who have ascended to some highly civilized platform.  From their throne that resides somewhere in a black and white photobooth in some distant corner of the city, they judge; empty in their deliberations and shattered in their purity of heart.

Its for those people, I continue to speak at great lengths about the merits of Lionel Richie.  About how science fiction is actual and factual… about how Nelson Algren should be read with or without a student loan.  About how your art is trash without some sort of subtext and an ability to identify it.  About how we continue to decay and grow old.  About how every second of every day propelled by your own momentum its easy enough to be taken out by a dumb bitch in a mercedes on her cellphone.  And about how someone, inadvertently on Craigslist will call out your archetype with some wry, scathing comment… all in the while hoping to get together with someone who may or may not transfer an irreversible sexually transmitted disease into your ecosphere.

This is urban living.  An unfiltered vision that will turn any man, woman or child into an agoraphobic.  This is thunderdome.  The do or die.  The performance anxiety that you never asked for.  The tired, puffy eyed bitch with a bored look berating you in the bedroom.  The bartender at two a.m. refusing to serve.  The deity you made in your image that can’t be bothered with fuck all which incidentally is you, you and yours.

This is the desperate attempt to stay alive in the void.  To send chain letters, missed connections, messages of hope and despair.  To wake up in the morning and regret every word that you’ve said, thinking to yourself that it really matters.  That anyone really clicks through.  That knowing is a prerequisite.

That it matters that your picture will be splayed across a feed showing just how ugly and dispondent you really are.  That your death wish might ward off potential mates and confidentes.  That you will continually backspace and edit the words you don’t want heard or uttered, that will inadvertendly slip out of your mouth due to lack of sleep and stress.

That you’ll hope no one will figure out just how much as fucked up you are as the person who hides it more adeptly.  Swaddled in their khaki and their dull brown tones.  Their clear skin and full beards.  Their adult tastes and palates.  Their age appropriate behavior.  Their left hand path and critically approved musical tastes.

The right way of thinking as a left hand turn on on a one way street going the opposite way.

Where we’re going… we don’t need roads.

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