Explain nothing, except your self.
I feel like the last of a tribe struggling to keep my
identity a secret from the mob, one step ahead at best, reduced to hiding in
bushes from the monsters waiting to snag and devour me.
Sort of a delicacy and a poison – a non-specific drug that
exudes memes instead of hormones and physical highs – subconscious, primitive analog
get-off-ness apparently responsible for some weird competitive advantage consolidating
over geological time out of our mixed genus ancestors, or maybe Texans.
At the same time, I feel like spasmed dots from gods own
printer cartridge ejaculated onto the canvas of a great emptiness, the thought
of which is expressed in the three-dimensional representation of the position I’m
braced into while doing the splatting -- all hologram like but only juicier and
used -- like an in and out burger wrapper chewed on by a trashcan opossum.
Or better, a goat in a pickup heading for a quinceanera debating
Schrödinger with the driver while everyone at the waiting barbeque has already mentally
opened the box and are just waiting for the tooth pick to come out clean.
It has been written and all in the book, as the Rasta know
and love to hide behind. (It’s hard to imagine a worse wisdom choice than Haile
Selassie to follow, except all the others.)
And that’s how I feel – like I’m running out a predetermined
race that’s already been won or lost, and I’m the only one that doesn’t know
it. Fear the fuel, meat the engine, and mind the arena – all watched by the
voices that guide me.
I ask again, “Who are
they talking to?”
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