I am tired

​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.