2 Minutes. Go!

I broke your mind and left you stranded. I didn’t give into the shit you demanded. I got it twisted, tied it up. Filled my fucking misery cup. "Let it spill," you said, and smiled. I wrapped myself in sweet denial. I stood on the mountaintop feeling free, while industry feasted on the last real tree. 

Fishing for robot fish ain’t fun. They never jump. They barely run. They taste like metal, hurt to crunch. There’s no real fruit in that banana bunch. 

I had a woman, I remember well. Now I cuddle with the clones they sell. They don’t hold me tight, won’t hear me cry. They just sit and stare. I wonder why?

Ain’t they seen carbon-based before? Weren’t they invented just for this chore?

I fixed your mind with gum and paste. I took your good faith, bathed in waste. I let the politicians play, blood in their teeth at the end of the day. I blamed it on God, and you believed. The corporate shareholders were relieved. They toasted and laughed at declining health. Said, “As long as it won’t affect my wealth.”

So that’s what happened, believe it or not. Truth is cheap, but I gave it a shot. 

2 Minutes. Go!

The alarm sounded as the blue and red light cut through the fog of night. We had become accustomed to the sound of alarms. They were no longer alarming. They cried wolf too many times for anyone to take them seriously. 

I was keyed up. I had been up for days. I was paranoid, more paranoid than usual. The noise and the light felt like psychedelics, and it added to the dark energy building up inside me. I stretched my arms out. Flexed my hands. I could feel muscle and tendon beneath the scarred flesh. 

I was alive. 

There have been times when I wished I was dead, but I've always been good at avoiding it. 

I was looking for something, but I didn’t know what it was. I just knew that I would know it when I saw it. It was a feeling. I trust those feelings. Maybe that has something to do with the sustained heartbeats. I’d had some close shaves, but no razor burn. 

My stomach felt raw. Bloody. That’s always been a problem for me, and no one has been able to explain it. I am constantly swallowing blood. I taste nothing else. Everything I eat tastes of it. I barely notice anymore. Blood is hunger.

The taste thickened my resolve. I would bathe in it. It would wash me clean. I just needed to find a source.

I needed to tap a well.

2 Minutes. Go!

It was just that feeling. You couldn't change it. 

Palms slick with sweat, you couldn't even get a grip that would stick. You were slipping. Everyone could see it. They smelled it in the sickly sweat seeping from your pores. You tried to smile, flip golden hair, make it casual - sell the simplicity. It didn't work. It irked people. It was like biting the tines of a fork. It sent shockwaves. 

You open the door to let the devil in, then you better be able to close it. That's the truth. It's always been that way. Some people can open the door a crack, some can't. Some ride the top of the wave, and some sink to the bottom where they are tossed by currents, abraded by sand, instructed by panic. 

I keep the door wide open, because I am the devil. I can match any sickness he can think of. I can throw my weight into misery. Evil fears me because I can take it and keep on taking. I am a bottomless well. I am pure potential, a mountain you can't see the top of. I am the craggy bluffs that deceive the adventurous. 

You better keep your door closed. Lock it with the deadbolt. Nail two-by-fours over it. Rig it with bells. Shine a bright light. None of it will save you. 

I am coming, and I don't need a door. 

2 Minutes. Go!

You had your eyes closed when the sun burned out. You opened them because you heard the terror around you, the gasps and screams. You felt the chill. Cowered from the cries of the animals. Those who could make fire did so. The looting started right away.

The poison gas began seeping out of the vents, but it was not a poison that killed. At least not quickly. It was an investment in death. It was a creation that the government scientists lauded. The death would happen away from the source, and it would be quite a show.

The billionaires were satisfied in their domed enclave. Their false sun burned brightly, and there was no gas to twist their minds. They got to enjoy the show. That was the point.

The poor are always fodder. Always ignored. 

And they always lose. 

2 Minutes. Go!

The sodden ground, scattered bodies bleeding. Dead patriots as far as the eye can see. The sun pokes through the haze of smoke and dust. There is not enough light to glint off metal or watch faces. There are darkened lumps under trees, but you don't know if they are alive or dead. Choose caution. Close your eyes and be still, they won't shoot until they see the whites of your eyes. 

At least that is what the elders say.

When the red meets the blue, the whole world is a purple bruise. People shouldn't have to fit into binary systems. They are so limiting. They are inherently disingenuous. They are a square lie shoved down our round throats. The billionaires love the purple. They love to watch us tear ourselves apart. 

I remember when American flags mean unity, not division. I am not one of the elders, but I am old enough to remember. I'm old enough to remember when Congresspeople didn't wear AR-15 pins on their jackets. I remember when I was able to have friends who thought like me and friends who didn't think like me. The world was a lot rounder when I was young. 

You don't even get to breathe clean air. You get to watch the genocide of flora and fauna that my generation was supposed to stop. You get to watch species erased from the planet through no failing of their own. You get to cry for whales, cause the children of the 80s didn't save shit. We had great t-shirts, though. 

Sometimes, I hope that the animals will become rational, sentient, free-willed motherfuckers and come tear us to ribbons. Sometimes, I convince myself that we have been through hard times before. We will persevere. Sometimes, I have faith. Sometimes, I believe. 

Most of the time, I'm just tired.

2 Minutes. Go!

If you're going to come at me hard, it better be the hardest you've got because I've been yelled at and abused enough in my life. I'm not waiting for you to take the first swing. I'm ready to bust open my vault of slicing words. If you want it, get it, but don't come casual, come correct. 

If you have any fancy notions about fair fighting, you should throw those shits out right now. I don't fight fair. I fight to win. Think about that. Think about how much you like your teeth and eyeballs. Think about how you might want to have kids some day. 

I'm old. I'm not fast enough to run. But I got muscles you don't and the kind of bitterness that forty-five years earns you. I'm too tired for long fights. This shit will be over soon.

Something maybe you should know. I've never lost a fight. Not even close. Never had my ass beat. Never been jumped. Maybe they see it in my eyes, the willingness to dive into pain and blood. That shit doesn't bother me. I like it. I thrive on it. I've bathed in it. 

I'm not saying I'm a tough guy. I'm not. But I can be tough for three minutes, and that is all I will need. 

2 Minutes. Go!

Is she cold in the night when she feels alone, red dress on black boots in the tepid warmth of the streetlight? Does she remember, then, that she was once a dream. She was once the living embodiment of hope, and that was the first addiction. When you finally do kick hope, it leaves you a different person. You are full of holes. The holes need to be stopped up or all of you will leak out of you.

Does she tie back her blonde hair showing black roots? Does she hide her heritage, becoming blonde and hiding her black roots? Is she America? Is this what she's trying to tell you? Look at me, I'm you! I'm the ideals you claimed to have, do you feel them now?

Will she die for your sins, though? Can you pound nails into her hands, and build belief systems around her? Can we make them kill for her? Will they do anything for her attentions, her approval? Do they think it will stop the lonely misery for even one measly second?

They buy her hourly, and she sells, not herself, she keeps that close. She sells the ugliness that you bring to the ghetto. She sells the sticky glances the morally upright cast. She sells the lie that there is love for you. Comfort. She sells you a brief window of time, too grimed to look through. She sells you your soul back, for just a moment, so you can sell it all over again.