I am breaking out every last prisoner, I said as I lowered my welding hood. I am tired of bloodblue brightness and blacklights snuffed out by the pig patrol. Murk and mudslide sag my chest in and stop me from breathing. In a bank vault built on a landfill, I lunge out and try to bite off the tongue of a business executive. We all sing happy birthday at a guillotine lunch counter while eating rhubarb pie. Bitter celebration with a syrupy finish.
Brick the windshield to break out the center of the money-soiled web. It is as delicate as bulletproof glass. Ignite a glass bottle full of brown oil and parchment paper scribbled with the names of the top ten most dangerous artists. Yell like a heat-cat, a hungry rat in need of his garbage dinner.
Fight like a man through waves of atomized razor spray that cuts all soft parts like asbestos gemstones. Fight for your right to die like a dog gunned down by some guy in a navy blue outfit. Otherwise, you can work yourself to death or get ruptured by an atom bomb under that name or any number of pseudonyms. The electric bill weighs as much as the bunion on my foot that I got from trying to stand up for myself and kick the teeth out of a senator's head.
Fuck the wage-slave system and these carceral kitchen windows. The vortex welcomes this whole fucking failed experiment, and all the billionaires claw at the walls of the wind tunnel. What if we could clean them all out with a giant vacuum like that and start over? The crowds running to plant seeds in the earth would create an earthquake strong enough to shake the stars like Yahtzee dice in a blackblue cup.
No, I do not believe that people are too selfish and ignoble. I do not think that we are all beasts beyond redeem. No more redeye. No more rope loop. No more exoskeletal shotgun shells filled with feverdream pellets. No more deadletter currency printed in green blood bearing a message that reads like last rites. We ain’t dead yet, mother fuckers. Joy drainers. Buzz killers. Bullets scuttling away like scarab beetles. Beetles dancing on the graves of all the past tense cops and already rotting business tycoons.
Outside the graveyard gates, we spin and spin a children’s game, circle around, revolution.
A Brooklyn summer street smells like far-off ocean. The vast Atlantic across which millions of people came dragging their family rugs, cook pots, broiled meat recipes. Their hard spices and flaky dried herbs, singular brittle photos, coins, religious icons stamped on charms hanging from cheap nylon cord. Boiling pasta water with a few crawdads thrown in. Mop water scented purple by concentrated cleaner dumped by the bucketful onto the filthy sidewalk. Sweat. More saltwater and the fetid juice accumulating in all the garbage cans. Garbage. Car exhaust. Dry tree bark. A hot dog sweating in a white wax paper wrapper. Hot bricks, hot brownstone, hot pavement. Sorry, steaming little grass patches. Sticky paint flaking off of the round, steel railings. Dirty melting gum. A woman’s own animal scent, thick around her body like Pig Pen’s dirt cloud. Smelling like an animal even just 5 minutes out of the shower. Dry concrete. Fried food. Metallic water spurting out of park-center sprinklers and street-side hydrants. Hose water smell. School drinking fountain smell. Hot vegetable oil smell, pounded meat, putrefying fish heads. Sharp smells and round ones. Some so round they surround the smeller like a scent tornado. Some smells are like how cows are commercially slaughtered- a fast iron rod to the forehead. WD-40. Other lubricants. Greases. So much oil to help so much movement amid searing friction. Indoors it is cold and disturbingly scentless with the air conditioners running. Walking outside is like walking into the climax of birth- all that heat, body, breath, and odor.
The train is howling like a banshee in a tomb of broken tile and greasy metallic beams. It sounds like dirty socks and garbage water slicked over with a slurry of clonking plastic beverage bottles. Thick puddle slopping against the dusty shores of this underground metallic canal. Hear the scurry of a small, felted animal. Hear the shirr, the stacks of clanging bars, and the shake of iron coins in a cotton pocket. The slide of metal on metal like an industrial deli meat slicer. A full body vibration that moves the water molecules in your blood around. Making your eyeballs bob in their juice. The tinking fried wire sound of a flutter-out fluorescent. Wheeze and wind purr whirring in time with the velocity of the steel stallion. Stand clear of the closing doors and become deafened by the blown-out intercom system. Sound like an ice pick to the skull. Sound like being born in reverse, like the snowbound atom bomb avalanche of the tin can train hurtling in a corrugated underground tunnel. Sound of subway train, take everybody home.