There’s a big big system in the sky and no one wants to talk about it. Not anymore at least. People are hugging in the streets because there’s nothing left to do. The birds are back and the bugs are bigger and more of us get sick more often and those of us that die still get to tell their stories. No one can remember a thing anymore and the weather on the radio is wrong. The arbiters of taste have finally skipped town. Every weekend is painless and bloody.
There’s an even bigger system below us and none of us can see it even though the men with the big eyes keep digging and digging. They’re digging to feed the sky, its almighty power made manifest through what we have left of each other. All we have left is each other. The men are mama’s boys. They care for all the women in their supply chain. When they’re done there won’t be any more work for them either. They’ve added a laugh track to our love lives and sold us our old feelings and fed us the crumbs in the corners of our shoes. There’s nothing left to do but hug in the street. After we’re done hugging we’ll begin delivering our own mail, post up on street corners to tell each other jokes. We’ll walk across the bridge to watch the sunset before the hour of darkness, where every day it all stops because we can finally see the stars again.
When we’re done not working we can cook the rice two ways and see if anyone can tell the difference. We’re all broke bitches and we can finally return to life as the earth intended. Most of us are fed up and most of us are happy and most of us still want more more more but we’re learning not to. We’re stealing from each other in the dark and we’re forgiving each other in the morning. We’ve come to terms with the fact that some people do certain things.
The foremen are at band practice for the trade parade and the dream dramaturgs have notes. The criminal justice system will only sentence you to shadow work (if you’re caught) and Doctor God is giving pedicures in the back.
We have nowhere to put our trash so we take it uptown. Seventy second seventy ninth seventy sixth street. We take it uptown riding the train in the smelly car. Some people ride in the smelly car for the smell. Or to barter or to scavenge or to eat. I take the smelly car because I’m absolutely certain the love of my life will be riding with me. The man cutting up candy wrappers into confetti. At this point, the smell doesn’t bother me and my eyes don’t water so I can see everyone. I look wildlike at everyone’s faces and hope they remember mine. I believe in love at first sight and every day a stranger breaks my heart. There’s no greater gift on earth anymore, no greater gift than the love of a stranger.
A bunch of people are realizing that they aren’t actually in love. They’re seeing their partners dance for the first time. It’s all any of us wants to do now, dance crazy. The urge never subsides.
I dance to the sex beat. There are times when I look a-bove, and beyond. I dance to the sex beat. I dance to the sound of suckling. I dance with the bedraggled old woman in the dirty tights who doesn’t take kindly to small talk. They call her Cha Cha. Cha Cha can’t hear too good so you have to choose your words wisely. My hearing is going too because the music was too loud and too fast for too long and I was young in a time where everyone forgot how to feel so they spoke instead. They closed ranks around false gods and drank the rancid blood and called it brotherhood. For the first time, Cha Cha doesn’t yearn for the good ol days. She knows she’s next. She’ll be leaving behind the monument she’s built with her feet, the lost art of worshipping the power of now. She knows she’s next and she knows that I love her. She knows that wherever she’s going, I’m willing to go too. I believe in love at first sight and I believe in the moon even though we don’t talk anymore and I believe the big old thing beneath the earth will be back again. One day it will reconcile with the sky and finally set the record straight on what all the babies really want when they cry.
