12/27/12
A man and his cat day after Christmas listening to Pandora's jazz alone against the world. I look at my alter, a disaster zone of childhood trinkets, Atari cartridges, essential graphic novels, and a smattering of photobooth pics.
I finished the last drag of my smoke and dropped it into a candle I used in intense psychic rituals over the summer. I adjusted my fleece sheet turned house robe/cape/toga, heaved a deep breath and took in my room.
A crash landing of two decades worth of persona debris. Walls of comic book longboxes and crates of VHS tapes, packed away figures and bootleg DVDs. A wardrobe skirting awesome is clumped in crumpled piles, the entire room should be laundered.
But first some order to this chaos. I'll don my new Flash cap and zap this place into a headquarters for the future. The next year sizzles my frontal lobes as I peer around its edges, though it only confirmed what I saw long ago.
The eventual, continual, and final evolution of myself, my person, my identity towards the man, the ideal, the super heroic in deed and psychic resonance I aim to be.
In a blink my clothes are hung, laundry slung, and cleaned James' litterbox, swept, and sung out pop bubblegum style dance tracks.
I collapse to the bed, rainy winter air sweeping the humidity and dust about, as Britney convinces me that threesomes & living in sin is the new thing. Auto-tuned pop princess Barbie doll puppetry for decadently & defiantly delivering ourselves unto evil.
Though the music, the cult movies, the darkness that has infected humanity into emotionally battered sarcascatanauts alone inside guarded personal isolation, this is what will save us when the time comes when we'll have to trust one another to survive another day.
The dark knights of the soul are ready and misfiring daily. We'll be prepared in seventeen years but only just, and just a lifetime for some. We need to enlighten the masses as we begin the breakdown into gaseous forms, sparks of neuron crisp in fogs of devastation.
Ash, in the dust, grinning, feet planted and gritting doom from her eyes. Blast radius is all relative, and this is her daughter's finest shining moment in time zero future landlines. It's my child's eyes that size me up and I look away into the yesterday, thirteen years is hardly enough time.
And I'll return to the company I built, now just the shell of a bubble hut collection of humanity, all scanning & jamming one another in pajama safety airbag sleeping bags of protoplasm. Electrical activity etching and sketching personas, disposable and multiple at any time every time all the time, everywhere.
Well, not everywhere. Some have islands of improbable Utopia's that I will pick apart the bloated carcass of psycho-social-science-wise and process to the final masses. They'll be out there, flying, boating, building, scheming, but it's just the wheedling down of mankind's spirit.
I'll stand over an empire of empty streets, running rampant through it triumphantly in twencen nostalgia, and none will know why. Every deadly sin dies with me, the Reborn Lucifer drives a spear right through me. A blood pressure trigger blows New York City to ruins, I'll take her with me before I let him have her.
But that's so far to go. Valhalla only accepts those that do battle, so it is time to go to war, for I can sit silent no more.
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