the fool’s back pocket…

Metaphor is meteoric. I highly doubt that it’s anything to get that excited about, more like cheering on a principle or cause that means nothing but glacial movements that slow or decline ever further. For a minute I can breathe easily, content in the knowledge that whatever else is going to happen will just have to do so without any prep work from me. Like a Melanin Dolphin, or that other one still speaking in tongues from across the nation, all the murmurs and gestational voices boil over with suggestions that all make the garbage bin before the office even opens up. All the mistakes and intangible arguments serve as precedent for the easiest and best of us to do whatever we think is right, up to and including murder, rape, and suicide. Don’t let anyone tell you it ain’t a dirty world.

Still, somewhere out there the doctors keep writing prescriptions on little slips of paper and plumbers use chemicals to clean out drains clogged with hair. I can hardly think of a less interesting subject than the normal machinations with which each successive movement are built upon. There can be no call for the lamentations of the victims of stupidity or arrogance. It’s too loud. Nobody could hear a thing over the goddamned stereo. The same song’s been repeating for hours on end, and I’m about to snap. Nobody is coming along for the ride. Next time I’ll advertise better, like screaming over the music instead of dancing around it. The pain is intense. So much for clarity of mind and body.

Amidst the throbbing peckish rhythm of the early afternoon is a pigeon alternatively flying and hopping towards a lake. If he can pick through the lily pads and get down to the water, he might have a chance for lunch. Lucky for him, pigeons don’t eat sandwiches, just bread and meat separately served by being through a broken window. His path towards the lake is an appetizer of breeze. Old feathers fall off his body to be picked up by some passing youth who’s mother will later ream him out for picking up such a diseased specimen. That is not how sandwiches get turned into pigeon shit. The buffet is always just over the next row of houses. All the pigeon really knows is stale bread is better than no bread at all. Just like people, except pigeons don’t talk as much nonsense. You should know, you’re reading it now.

Euphoria through passive means. Most of the members of my species disdain such activity as unworthy of some intemperate facet of existence, but I feel pretty confident the whole concept will be forgotten in a few thousand years. Pity I won’t be alive to see it, but everyone else I know will be long dead by then, so what’s the difference? Split it and call me a bastard, or maybe an asshole. There are few things as gratifying as being told the truth.

For such long stretches of time there is just random movement and rhapsodic dalliance with the people who can craft beauty more powerful than my imagination. Still, it is there to be sampled by all, and for that I can only say thank you. I’d pay off every last one of the few of those willing and able to inspire before Citibank sees one thin dime from these cut and bruised hands. It is really true though, and when I say true I mean absolutely positively honest that slavery to need is the last demarcation point between the pseudo-free and those wise enough to know how impossible that really is. All the sun stamped dolphins and fake tanning machines and broken stereos and shards of glass don’t change a thing. Didn’t you know? It isn’t only the retards looking for roses growing out of the trash pile anymore. Nowadays, it seems like it might be every last one of us. Sounds stupid, like something Frank Fukuyama would say. After all, anyone crass enough to declare the end of history is probably selling something like Sarin gas or machine guns or botulism virus. Who else would have the balls to say something like that?

He cornered the market on truth only to find out nobody was interested in the ugly truth when beautiful lies were so much more precocious. So the academics don’t want you, the businessmen aren’t interested, and the politicians could care less. That’s no different than any other time. Another hidden problem of the democratic mind. No parties, no movements, no quiet estuary where the young grow and fatten up on easy kills, just someplace to pretend that normality is what you get when you pile debts on top of the broken and beaten agents of policy. How’s that for change you can believe in? Would the next sucker line up to be shot if you told him we’ll pay a few million dollars first? As long as you don’t ask to enjoy any of it, there is a feast of plenty running all night every night.

Tired of the melange, I stroll back out into the day. Someone besides Robert has to feed the pigeons. I can live with starving and dying humans, but not one pigeon. Better to sit back and watch the continents drift and the days go by. Different by scale, but not by talent, another block of time and space curves back towards itself. Envy is such a poor man’s disease.