Didn’t you know that I couldn’t exist? This formatting, as
diverse as all others, has an evil hue of hair pulling hours in silent college
campus libraries. Coughing and crying ring out in the sustained white noise of
thousands of medicated restless leg syndromes. The rhythm of this place is set
at academic rigor. There is no time for free-form thought in such an organized
set of boundaries. You have agonized and labored in front of this very screen
for hours and clench fist hours. Occasional victories that felt much like the
discovery by the tongue of an ulcerous cavity on the arrival of a soggy
birthday cake on a privileged young lady’s sweet sixteenth. Only fifteen
candles dance softly in the afternoon light. One extinguished by a barrage of
confused tears….
“I was looking for something to do. Nothing I found could
quite occupy me and with nothing to gain you know there’s nothing to lose.”
This testing format that makes my eyes water in the
electronic glow. I am not basking. My eyes water cruel onion slicing crocodile
tears like the tattoos on faces of weeping gang members when brethren go down
in combat. Puddles amass at my feet as if I were an unlucky duckling, crushed
beneath the rear axle of a speeding pick up truck down a street with no lamps.
The truck carried with it other trucks to level other wild life and leave tire
tracks in freshly born flowerbeds, alongside creeks and riverbeds, but never
leaving that mark of obvious destructive humanity in the grass of freshly mowed
lawns. They paid cheap labor to paint their grass green. Blade by blade. Cheap
workers from countries of greater spiritual wealth in the land itself. They are
not disillusioned by the value of objects in the eyes of the easily persuaded
public. They know the score and laugh and weep that the substance-less rich
deny their existence on a level of empathic caricature. Can they not take a
joke? They shrivel at the vulgar language of truth and write in small print
about the specifics behind all altercations between races in order to attempt a
return to repopulate this new homeland security. I’ll trade you my false sense
of security for your false teeth, old man on the city bench. May you hide your
defecation from an educated public but enter a new sense of anonymity in your
ceiling free house. The house of the earth with its cruel twists of fate that
leave people crimpled in bitter resignation. Or is it a submissive defeat? That
you lost your sponsors and everything crumbled.
You mustn’t always be such a damned defeatist.
I couldn’t resist. You know that. I’m stuck on this track of
diversity of experience to sustain. My heart pulls in all directions and I must
follow it through the grapevines of wrath and the tree forts of solitude in western
hemlocks through gardenia groves in open mass graves through tortuous torture
slides in sleight of hand tricks and whistles sound when I exit… There is a
desire for the unknown and impossible future to become, at forefront, a
catalyst for all present actions. There is a desire for the random swerving and
the favorite words of other speakers of action and truth. Let me scream in your
face god damn you!
