ekynus

Who gave the acrobat these delusions? Now he's bent over, heaving with an asthma attack. Twenty-nine steps short of a full staircase, and that poor old man still couldn't make it. "You vouyeuristic motherfuckers, this is no joke! This'll be you one day!"             And we just laugh harder and harder and harder. For, no old man, we'll never be like you. For we were born with guns for hands and Constitutions for hearts. For we've been raised on your back with your face in the mud.              (Don't get me wrong, I'm not promoting tradition.) But damned if I ain't the "The blindest motherfucker on two wobbly legs! Count your bless

No one's been how old I am. No one's breathed my air and walked my beat. Your tales mean nothing if they don't tell anything. Who'll be the first to lie to the infant? And what lies will they be? About growing up and growing old? About experience and belief? No one's lost like I have, and no one's heard the same screams. The fresh textbook is incomplete the second of print, but we'll try, try, try, and try to read, read, read, and read about how we'll have so much more to write down when we're that old. Well, fuck, I've already grown up. You can't buy your childhood back from garage sales, mindfucks, and TV on DVD, but I'll help you try, try,

I didn't learn to count my blessings in nickel and copper just to have these windows turned inside out. Hell, if I wanted a mirror, I'd stare down the barrel and wink at your wife with my free eye. With my clean eye. With my blind eye. Just know that your diplomacy is working, and as long as my cash registers, you've got yourself a bitch. Back home, I left a length of rope and a rickety old three-legged chair with a note and diagram. "Dear Discipline, I've bought you a new necklace. Hold it around your throat, and the ceiling beams know how to fasten it, I've seen 'em do it before. Use the chair to get there and gravity to get down." Because

We're tugging ponytails like it's a fashion statement. Oh, sorry, I forgot it is. Sorry, sometimes I forget that it is. We men, dressed to the nines, we'd gut our own mothers just to be in her eyes. We'd slit our own throats to get betwixt those thighs. Spin, ballerina. Spin spin spin. What a clever devil that birthed a voyeurism with outlandish profit margins. The first rule of the ballroom is: if everyone's a whore, then no one's a whore. How opportune that we raised these cities on competition; they're like our children as they dance and laugh with phallic knives in their backs. These streets smell like sex and we're all drooling.