vic danger, and the politics of breathing
the day begins with a rude opening salvo.
“knock knock knock knock knock”
“do you have a cigarette? ”
“no.”
mayhaps, i should lie about things that matter instead of things that don’t.
it’s just after dawn. the light from the window is already warm and foreboding. it’s going to be a long, hot, miserable fucking day - full of weird work and strange angles. my own personal summer of love, with all its prose and promise, is barely a memory now. the glass has shattered. those moments...still-frames that rise out of the blue show up here and there – in between the static and the noise. it seems like a riddle or a mystery or a storyboard. for all my bravado, it seems, on most days, to be more than i can handle.
but sometimes…
i become something a little better than human. i am calm and electric. i feel as though i can sway the will of god, and cause every beast of the field to cater to my whims.
today is one of those days.
it is 7:34 a.m.
independence day – 2011.
big doings in the 423. apparently, according to the local rag, sammy kershaw is headlining the festivities at the annual and obligitary 4th of july celebration. and though i would probably never lend a hand to such a conspiracy, i have to admit that it would be funny if ol’ sammy choked on a plug of levi garrett and dropped dead right there on the fucking stage.
that would be something worthy of recreational explosives
but alas, it is 7:43 a.m. - and the world is quiet.
all that is needed now is to kill some time until it’s time. i’m not sure when that’ll be and i don’t want to ask because, in this moment, i have the living room to myself under a canopy of perfect silence. mark hasn’t lived here in months so there are no more mid-morning power-drinking sessions, or whining about how bad his life sucks. he has resigned himself to settling in, settling down, and settling for his hepatitis-infested whore of a girlfriend that, for the sake of convenience, he’s shacked-up with in one of those high-rise futility factories rusted relics sit around and watch tv. roger is sitting outside waiting on someone to show up so he can get make a pill or two. i’ve even caught tammy in between her indecipherable, psychotic rants about whores and hot dogs and camaros and saggin’-ass sluts and narcin’, penny-loafer punks.
