I see bright U. M. B. shine from across the way. Streets lights interspersed off and on continue into the seeable distance. Sullen roads stretch into obsidian dark with nothing but recycled music groaning from warbling ancient 8-track sound system.
Streets of anonymous name and variety flow past a solitary grey Japan-made vehicle. I am one with the capitalist consumerism its flaws clumsily coalesce into subconscious acceptance; conscious reluctance to admit I’m another prostitute for the “machine.”
Listlessly the distance stares back into blank brown eyes. Strips of white submerged in the blackest of blacks slide by underneath my torso. Car stutters mutters unheard alien love discussions from a radio channel change I hear it all and transfer back to the music.
Every night I have the same nightmare that I wake up and there’s nothing left for me to see. That globalized gluttonous mass-culture continued on and left behind a Nietzschean paradise for me, that I feel nothing stronger than she imagines.
Every night I have the same dream, that you wake up and know about these flaccid feelings left unrelated unexpected in a heart’s abysmal crevices. That I escape awkward repetitive conversations that I’m more than internet 2.0 and Reality TV create, that you feel it too like every stale cliche. Did you feel it Allen Ginsberg before the Hep’ took you away?
These city roads have no life after 10 p.m., that’s when it all shuts down, when the city men head to cocktail hours late nights meeting women of dubious quality but “disease-free” their contact assures phoning in “late” again to worried wives. Soon investment banks restaurants bars everything: closed. That’s when the ‘burbs get busy when the jubilant kids own the limitless night.
I see abundant cars poorly parked surrounding charming cul-de-sacs lined with same-design mansions, constant streams progressing up slanted artisan grass, footmarks desecrate masterful landscaping, labor of love by Nikolai, hot Russian import tennis moms can’t stop flirting with behind high-end sunglasses and tumblers of Arnold Palmer’s favorite.
I see you pass red plastic cups, brimming with forbidden tonics, stigmatized conversations pass like fleeting chirps of newborn birds under bass overtones on Tech N9NE’s newest track. You who said local was “alright,” who ate country club meals for country club prices, wearing Polo-brand shirts (seafoam!) Punching in Dad’s pin number.
Who imagine interest in what lacks, in television shows you sober find sickening, in books of minimal literary achievement, in boys and girls whom parents thought were attractive 5th graders but nothing more. Who started out slow but floundering reached for more dazzling rebellious addictive alternatives.
Who crack jokes in between cup flips, who crack smiles at cute boys, who crack lies to unwitting adults, who live in a perpetual world of summer an incessant state of sycophantic Hollywood lifestyle mimicry tasting everything in public parks in vacant tennis courts in hidden alcoves. Who little brothers sisters and cousins look up to and can’t look away from at tedious melodramatic family reunions that don’t quite “touch” you anymore.
Who take their sloppy one-night lovers by the hand, staggered by not-so-foreign substances, lacking capacity for thought possessing thought enough for copulation, discarding bottles and blunts and innocence on familiar staircases going up to bedrooms you’ve never seen and won’t forget. Caught on a repeating Gravity’s Rainbow-esque adventure.
Who dread the coming of the week because it means paradise lost, sleeping through monotonous lesson plans, pop quizzes, tests, essays, essay tests, quests, school, time. Who pre-gamed Art History because you just wanted to feel alive again because you needed to make it through the day.
Who travel abroad to escape a mundane “small town” existence only to end up passed out friendless in Hungarian raves where thumping techno rhythms drown out the beat of your heart and the voice inside your head saying “go home.” Who wanted to lose it to the suave French dropout with chain smoker’s voice and “fuck the world” attitude.
Who frequent the frats like a bum patronizes the soup kitchens, always hungry for more of that love lust desire and safety of muscled arms marooning your Sancho Panzas in exchange for momentary indiscretion and thrill. Who travel home dreading the feeling that you’re a Meursault in your own house.
Who struck mothers and howled at fathers over heated screaming contests when you were found out how you ignored the tears and disappointment in exchange for another night of insouciant exploration of youth and vitality how you changed your middle name to vice.
I think of you all as city council-forgotten vicious pot-holes remind me I’m cruisin’ on Prospect with prospects, oh mother, irony overwhelms! I see single moms carrying multiple tired children and infants home to dismal hovels quick glances around in multiple protective circles (be warned!) She’s not someone to mess with tonight.
Of puffy black-coat-wearing wannabe gangsters and thugs trying to replicate the Tupac and Biggy style and avoid the Tupac and Biggy outcome glocks riding inside pockets and dimebags situated in safe zip-up havens Timbaland boots tap broken sidewalks, all children of broken homes. Which one do I get it from?
But constant road vibrations mix with cellular vibrations, reminding me of what I missed requesting I join the fun. Will I be there soon? Who’s calling? Silence. Lapse of control so momentary I’ll forget it happened in the morning none of this happened. Just another night.
Just turn right then left then right again. A man walking home to his lack of a home. This city lost its life and why didn’t anyone let me know? Thunder clap cacophonous sends bolts of light plummeting earthward furiously but you don’t affect me.
I come to a red light, with an urge to drive through, and I pump the break when I see a billboard sign. All it says is “Reappear Here” and it’s an advertisement for a lifestyles magazine. Am I just like Clay? Am I feeling less than zero? I turn off the ignition to make it all stop.
Disappear Here
I see bright U. M. B. shine from across the way. Streets lights interspersed off and on continue into the seeable distance. Sullen roads stretch into obsidian dark with nothing but recycled music groaning from warbling ancient 8-track sound system.
Streets of anonymous name and variety flow past a solitary grey Japan-made vehicle. I am one with the capitalist consumerism its flaws clumsily coalesce into subconscious acceptance; conscious reluctance to admit I’m another prostitute for the “machine.”
Listlessly the distance stares back into blank brown eyes. Strips of white submerged in the blackest of blacks slide by underneath my torso. Car stutters mutters unheard alien love discussions from a radio channel change I hear it all and transfer back to the music.
Every night I have the same nightmare that I wake up and there’s nothing left for me to see. That globalized gluttonous mass-culture continued on and left behind a Nietzschean paradise for me, that I feel nothing stronger than she imagines.
Every night I have the same dream, that you wake up and know about these flaccid feelings left unrelated unexpected in a heart’s abysmal crevices. That I escape awkward repetitive conversations that I’m more than internet 2.0 and Reality TV create, that you feel it too like every stale cliche. Did you feel it Allen Ginsberg before the Hep’ took you away?
These city roads have no life after 10 p.m., that’s when it all shuts down, when the city men head to cocktail hours late nights meeting women of dubious quality but “disease-free” their contact assures phoning in “late” again to worried wives. Soon investment banks restaurants bars everything: closed. That’s when the ‘burbs get busy when the jubilant kids own the limitless night.
I see abundant cars poorly parked surrounding charming cul-de-sacs lined with same-design mansions, constant streams progressing up slanted artisan grass, footmarks desecrate masterful landscaping, labor of love by Nikolai, hot Russian import tennis moms can’t stop flirting with behind high-end sunglasses and tumblers of Arnold Palmer’s favorite.
I see you pass red plastic cups, brimming with forbidden tonics, stigmatized conversations pass like fleeting chirps of newborn birds under bass overtones on Tech N9NE’s newest track. You who said local was “alright,” who ate country club meals for country club prices, wearing Polo-brand shirts (seafoam!) Punching in Dad’s pin number.
Who imagine interest in what lacks, in television shows you sober find sickening, in books of minimal literary achievement, in boys and girls whom parents thought were attractive 5th graders but nothing more. Who started out slow but floundering reached for more dazzling rebellious addictive alternatives.
Who crack jokes in between cup flips, who crack smiles at cute boys, who crack lies to unwitting adults, who live in a perpetual world of summer an incessant state of sycophantic Hollywood lifestyle mimicry tasting everything in public parks in vacant tennis courts in hidden alcoves. Who little brothers sisters and cousins look up to and can’t look away from at tedious melodramatic family reunions that don’t quite “touch” you anymore.
Who take their sloppy one-night lovers by the hand, staggered by not-so-foreign substances, lacking capacity for thought possessing thought enough for copulation, discarding bottles and blunts and innocence on familiar staircases going up to bedrooms you’ve never seen and won’t forget. Caught on a repeating Gravity’s Rainbow-esque adventure.
Who dread the coming of the week because it means paradise lost, sleeping through monotonous lesson plans, pop quizzes, tests, essays, essay tests, quests, school, time. Who pre-gamed Art History because you just wanted to feel alive again because you needed to make it through the day.
Who travel abroad to escape a mundane “small town” existence only to end up passed out friendless in Hungarian raves where thumping techno rhythms drown out the beat of your heart and the voice inside your head saying “go home.” Who wanted to lose it to the suave French dropout with chain smoker’s voice and “fuck the world” attitude.
Who frequent the frats like a bum patronizes the soup kitchens, always hungry for more of that love lust desire and safety of muscled arms marooning your Sancho Panzas in exchange for momentary indiscretion and thrill. Who travel home dreading the feeling that you’re a Meursault in your own house.
Who struck mothers and howled at fathers over heated screaming contests when you were found out how you ignored the tears and disappointment in exchange for another night of insouciant exploration of youth and vitality how you changed your middle name to vice.
I think of you all as city council-forgotten vicious pot-holes remind me I’m cruisin’ on Prospect with prospects, oh mother, irony overwhelms! I see single moms carrying multiple tired children and infants home to dismal hovels quick glances around in multiple protective circles (be warned!) She’s not someone to mess with tonight.
Of puffy black-coat-wearing wannabe gangsters and thugs trying to replicate the Tupac and Biggy style and avoid the Tupac and Biggy outcome glocks riding inside pockets and dimebags situated in safe zip-up havens Timbaland boots tap broken sidewalks, all children of broken homes. Which one do I get it from?
But constant road vibrations mix with cellular vibrations, reminding me of what I missed requesting I join the fun. Will I be there soon? Who’s calling? Silence. Lapse of control so momentary I’ll forget it happened in the morning none of this happened. Just another night.
Just turn right then left then right again. A man walking home to his lack of a home. This city lost its life and why didn’t anyone let me know? Thunder clap cacophonous sends bolts of light plummeting earthward furiously but you don’t affect me.
I come to a red light, with an urge to drive through, and I pump the break when I see a billboard sign. All it says is “Reappear Here” and it’s an advertisement for a lifestyles magazine. Am I just like Clay? Am I feeling less than zero? I turn off the ignition to make it all stop.
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