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long after midnight
Watching snow geese migrate at the wrong season finally confirmed our suspicions that we are all the walking dead. Happiness is a fairy tale now. We are the last generation to ever have had a taste of that thick sweet emotion. It's numbed our souls down. It's broken us all. There is a particular pain that comes with experiencing something that is now extinct. The knowledge that we will never never never find something again. The truly lost. I check the door I've already locked twice. Hope tries to sneak in while I'm sleeping. I want none of that. When there is the opportunity to not feel, I take it. One leg on the curb, the other in the gutter. Crawling around salvation, one knee in the grass, the other in broken glass. Blacktop vs. white asters. The sky pollution pink opens up and spills forth transmutation. One night one hand tangled in my hair like a bird trying to keep from falling out of a nest. The other hand around my upper thigh squeezing tight like a hand on the handlebar on an amusement park ride that was more than bargained for. It's going to leave a mark and it's going to be the most satisfying thing to happen in a very long time. Fingers reaching toward oblivion. The storm is all around. The trees spin in the tornado-like winds, spindly, crowded, throwing leaves down on us like a ticker tape parade. Celebrate eternity in one hours time. Electricity in the air hits the ground somewhere and shoots back up through bodies pushed down into bloody soil. Bleached blond hair and skinny jeans. Survival by any means. Offer me some whiskey and I have the strength to say no. So I get to stay sober and watch the show. All this goes down in real time but it feels like a video. Ridiculously pompous drunk punk. Throwing empty bottles at Mercedes Benz and rearranging detour signs for the anarchic value alone. Sleep it off in the woods and hope no one sets your body on fire before you wake up. They told you to watch for bedbugs when you dumpster dive. You know they can't survive in such a cold climate. But somehow we can. Showing the latest ground score like an elementary school show-and-tell. You're going to make a time machine with spare parts and transport us all back to the good old days. You told me so. And I want to believe.
10:39 PM - Tuesday, Sept. 17, 2019
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