Ahh: September into Autumn. Stiff now from climax overload. What were we ever earring for? Was there anyone to expect us but us? Write a fucking fantasy about it. Rip away at your candy-ass, Sour Patch Kids, my-dad-died-when-I-was-in-High-School soul typing every letter on the page.
This isn’t for you. The “royal we” is incommunicable from this Earth. Fill in those cracks of your mind. Nothing can repair us in existence. We are here too. We’re all in this together; since 1988: you an’ me, kid. We are. Forever.
Listening to “Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman in a Home Depot, faint. Now in my 30s excruciatingly unsure. Commitment to anything at all equates to completely nothing. And understanding that faith is full-stop loss, immediately. Because who wouldn’t? Let’s live luxuriously in lavish lounge luster.
A bIG cITY! Pictures and rushing around, living. Where there is a place that’s nowhere. Where we spawn kin; where the fuck are all our kids? Where are our children? Where is “we been had” belonging? We live within eras. This air we need is unnatural.
Proof of addiction. In a public place too drunk or too high. Neglecting the most PG-Rated instance of maturity. Where destiny faces you in the face. Missing the mistake you wished you’d made years ago. Living life as a perpetual older sibling or parental figure. A friend-zone of child. Charitable organizations and fostering.
Patting longevity on the shoulder with an open hand. Once when and all the time as everything else is missing. The feeling of eternity, eternal. Gritting every tooth. The first time I experience heartburn. That Volvo station wagon that smelled like country music and county-fair candy. Mom slapping me around in the front seat for “Fucking everything up!”
Tracy Chapman looking like a black person I once met in some mysterious DNA-linked way that quivers my soul’s core. The feeling of personally sacrificing my white flesh with all others with white flesh to rid the world completely of white flesh in one giant white-flesh-flamed fire. If there’s ever a step for a person of color, let it be my back, and I’ll sturdy myself on all fours.
Ritual sonics: an alarm, a lullaby. That kiss you expect to peck you every morning. So quiet kissing you on the cheek, neck, ear, and forehead. I trust you no matter whatever, always. I love you, and every day feels like fighting something. The average American length of life is Tracy Chapman’s single, “Fast Car.”
This song becoming older. This song montaging all moments of your life and. This song does not have insurance. This song is all of us as the “royal we.” This song is the pursuit of a new addiction, and there’s no fucking end; deny the end of this song!
Believing in being “SOMEONE” is a beast of burden. An ouroboros. You will be the person who infects this song upon others. No end because this isn’t entirely your responsibility. A fantastic heist while you cry under that balaclava. Pizza bate ficus.
Forced crying in a once-was Toys “R” Us parking lot. Your friend with a handgun pointing the barrel at your face while he takes a piss out your parked-car backdoor in your face. Tracy Chapman’s syllabus at Antioch College. A major in life. Finding again what you’ve been looking for all along. We’re all here, never in heaven.
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