The mothers again have taken to baking their babies into walls around their Gucci gardens, and the fathers are found soliciting sex dolls to drive their careers far from town. The zeppelin overhead shines the face of democracy, and the bureaucrats have barred my door with towers of papers to be filed. Skeletons stalk the streets looking for doctors to eat, and the alley behind Burger King is where the Velez family sleeps on cardboard pads from the dumpsters.
I stand on the corner downtown dry-heaving, office-soldiers of the empires wide arcs to avoid me, isolated in a public hole of swarming office conscripts. I dry heave because what’s stuck in my throat, like a dreadlock that won’t come up, dry and choking on a dead snake fat on the words I’m too stuck speak.
I am naked and the machinery tacks my feet to the intersection’s concrete: passing by are the graduates asking for lower rates, saying please; the families wondering what is the most convenient time for them to pay the insurance trustees, on their knees; the good-hearted valkyries are on their knees, waiting and asking when can they receive.
Sunday afternoon the streets turn red and blue, rowdy for the stadium, dressed to support their teams. Which side will gain more ground? Which team will get the points? The tailgates are decadent – tattered jeans hiding children staring hunger-eyed are told to stay outside; the philosopher’s monkey on CNN’s half-time show has much to say for De Grasse’s wisdom; rapes are confined to the port-a-johns.
Monday morning the careers are back to the streets and there I am, 30,000 feet beneath mechanically tacked to the concrete, naked and all ribcage for want something… sane – coddle my knees and wonder why I ever thought I should speak.
Mick's Neon Fog 