"Of course I can drive one of those. Gimme the keys." |
But in my moments of peace when the dogs and crickets have been evicted from my van and the muffler isn't flapping in the wind after rusting off (the flex pipe fix lasted less than one year) then I still wonder what is the point of all this mad destruction. It must be understood that it's our obligation to destroy anything natural, to transform any environment, to prepare to abandon Earth to our garbage and live in outer space. I'm sure that's our future because if it is possible then eventually Mankind will make it necessary.
It's tiresome hunting for every tool and losing books and food. The other day I moved my clothes bin out of the way to search for a shoe and in a bag was the rotting bones of a chicken I'd had for dinner a week earlier. No wonder the van reeked like death. I showered the other night from a spigot on the side of a nightclub as girls clip-clopped in high heels and men sauntered by in cowboy boots. We want an image of the wild west to be purified of dirt. It's 100 degrees every day and the heat index is like 110. 2nd in heat only to La Paz, Mexico. I drink gallons of water and sweat in withering sun that boils your blood. The van provides no relief as the gutter punk passenger left behind chiggers from train hopping and the crickets are mating everywhere, thousands of crickets flying across my mug and the heat is easily 98 degrees all night long in the van and I sweat the toiling sweat of a haunted man.
One set of Texans lives the high life of bulk chicken breast purchases and deep freezers, nameless and interchangeable service workers painting bathrooms and cutting lawns and delivering furniture while the AC pumps cool air into lounges. The other side struggles for survival as millions upon millions look for ways to make money at any cost to life or limb. There are middlemen for middlemen. Clearinghouses for used car salesmen. "We connect you to the right Pimp to whore out your daughter for highest dollar!" You start to wonder what anyone actually does except broker deals among brokers. Pimps have pimps. And that's acceptable because the propaganda polishes the finish so glossy all we see is our plastic surgery money in the reflection of the wood.
I've wondered why I go though all the trouble if my goal is to live sustainably and simply by the honest sweat of my brow. No middlemen. No faceless labor. The work I do now will be the same work as a subsistence farmer, backbreaking and sure to cause early death, but in that case I will be working for my own agenda and in this case I'm harvesting a margarita menu for retired oil speculators to browse while their trophy wives fix their makeup. In the end the planet melts anyway and our literature and art is molded into the next generation of gasoline for when lizards and crickets learn to drive. We dangle digital baubles to lure peasants to pick our coffee and then pat ourselves on our backs that we spread the wealth. It's a delusion I can't accept and only in times of deep distress and social rejection do I ignore the burning disdain I have. So, maybe it's good that this broken wrist is a distraction from my broken heart. I haven't read the news in weeks and I don't care. It's better. I belong in a foundry where I can toil in misery and obscurity with no end in sight, a monument to my own futility as the sun burns down in merciless fusion on the craters we create with gigantic earth movers. We hunt our own destiny in the pursuit of rare earth...
My favorite. |
We sing like doomed crickets chirping in the dirt parking lot of a new restaurant, moments after we finally meet our mate a truck rolls up and buries us in concrete.
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