Teeth feeling tight with a broke little toe, to y’all who read this mess, it’s Nov. 9, the Colosseum is caked in a plethora of dried blood all puce-like, a new commander has been selected, and I’m currently in my room, where I will be for the foreseeable future, pleasantly-pajamaed, this device switched off and buried under some Catwoman comic books and dead paint brushes, my mind focused not on any sort of electoral outcome, or social outrage, but on whatever temples of boom I have turning on the wheels of steel, as I reclaim a moment of respite, a brief slice of “cool-don’t-care” euphoria that I feel like I’ve lost from my personal air these past few months, with what, this brutal bust of a year and all.
The last 10 months have been one long slug of turmoil gulped from a cracked shot glass at the travesty bar, in where I lost all credence in collective humanity, so yes-siree-Bob, I’m gonna be as chill as a cucumber in a pair of sweatpants, twistin’ leaf so white it looks like little cotton balls covered in sugar as I peruse through J Dilla liner notes and the headstones of “Spoon River,” reflecting on, and taking part of, what’s good in life. I’m gonna vanquish from my hovel all reports of a negative, oppressive and aggressive manner for as long as I can ride it out, chasing catharsis down like it were a fox, and I, a hound. I’m gonna consume black coffee and crisp cerveza. I’m gonna phone my sister Clare Ann and talk about our favorite pictures moving at 24 frames per second. And with all the power of 808s and snare-breaks, Jessi Colter and William Blake, I’m gonna block out tales of power-mad boomers using their decrepit genitals as weapons of mass destruction, limo-living monsters salivating over nubile flesh, these geriatric rotten eggs who are too cowardly and too greedy to support any type of real or purposeful progress and who are to blame for refilling the well of disrepair where we, the lower, kickable caste fill our pictures, as they trot by with blinkers on their bridles keeping their eyes focused on the pursuit of everlasting payouts over all and all over. These fucking money-grubbin’ tycoon prunes, tryin’ to lay pipe on sacred ground.
Aw nah, I plan on opening windows and taking shore leave, breathing deep and smokin’ breeze like Willie Nelson naked. I’m gonna compose an actual letter on a typewriter to send to a friend for her birthday that will contain a P.S. and a P.P.S. I’m gonna listen to the sure-handed honky-tonk of Sturgill Simpson and the hybrid trap soul of Bryson Tiller, two local stalwarts killing it in their respective fields. I’ll be taking a breather from our soaring murder rate, and the bombardment of hard drugs tearing through family ligaments like a wolf on fire. Fuck all that noise. It ain’t going nowhere, and so it can sit and wait for me to return from celebrating my wife, who, for reasons beyond me has allowed a scoundrel such as I to lay by her side for the last 16 years. She’s my Danae, and I’m truly blessed.
Yes, kiddos, we can dig into the surging rise of sexually-transmitted diseases and boneheaded militias, and see if we can’t just find a link connecting the two next time — yes, next time, we’ll do it up big and grisly. But you see, voting this year has got me feeling dirty and deeply embarrassed for the denizens of this country. I’m too disheartened to get all pointed and go brash on some issue like, say, nuked-out North Korea. I’ve been deflated by watching the so-called socially conscious attack and cannibalize their own brethren over the slightest perceived offense, as if any of us were born fully informed and on the right side of everything — little collapsing microcosms solving fuck-all in the greater scheme of things, because it’s more fun to tear down than it is to build up.
Nay to it for now — I’m gonna take 10 steps away from the techno-babble field, where the clashing of aluminum foil swords has done little but stifle any constructive dialogue, as we click towards self-serving beatification. I’m gonna spend this time with my precious 9-month-old niece, Penny, her little, inquisitive eyes always studying and taking in everything from the leaves of a sugar maple to the spinning of an oscillating fan. She’s a genuine genius child, unlike any I have ever encountered. She’s either gonna grow up to be an astronaut flying rockets to Mars, or a painter, with such power over craft, she’ll make Gustav Klimt look dumb, or hell, maybe she’ll be both. See, Penelope is the future and the hope and she has my vote, my support and my heart.