It’s a Tom Waits evening. The poison in my system makes my body feel like an accordion and my head a megaphone. Whatever that means. The breeze is strong, enough to make the weeds tumble. The moon is low over the coulees and the rain has excited the sagebrush. I am a dancing king and tonight the peasants will see me in all my finery. This is what happens when my moustache grows in.
I will piss on the most expensive cars, wag my genitals at the miserable, slap an officer and spray paint the town black. There will be victims of my extrovert excess, surely some foolish martyrs, but this system is biased toward equilibrium and I am a self-appointed agent of balance. I made the decision to deny myself humility.
The stifling commonality of this Hat has reproduced at an alarming rate over the last decade. ‘Christian decency’ became the sacred turpentine that stripped away the remains of individuality, shiny pick-up trucks and three car garages and big televisions became the obedient new wallpaper. And now the adherent surround me, ruminating on gossip, chewing on news of infidelity and death like cud. The air is heavy with entitlement and other exhaust, pollutants that enrage my conscience and burn my nostrils. This town is a rigid artifice pumped full of a generic growth hormone and my resentment responds with great industry to such gross fraudulence.
I shall give it a hickey and hide all its turtlenecks; shred its credit cards and make it pay in seashells. Together we will embrace the directionless, the irrational, perhaps even the feral. I am going to relieve the itch, drain the angst, show them some magic, express this feeling.
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