There is nothing more to say. I’ve not a thing more to add. We’ve made our warnings and drawn our lines. Feeble old men feign leadership and we believe their haircuts––the sloganeers and television artists. We could have been great. Triumphant lovers and heroes-of-yore-come-modern body of god unto man––unto herself; hand holders, yellow flower pickers and givers––little boys unto girls, in the demure and sweet ways of innocence; dirty-toed willy worm scientists. Instead we drown in plastics meant to make things easy. And yet they break our backs; pillars of salt we are, staring into hypnotic boxed lies––falsity and fate, yellow and red numbers five. We loved that easy highway, that Tom Cruising Gasoline Rock pummeling red blooded Americana down our veins, down the freeway-not-so-free after all––cocky gum chewing masculine mandibles mouthing ‘victory-at-any-cost’ morality with the confident stare of the modern money printers knowing fakery––you know the look. Wind in our hair blowing golden like freedom, like the red and white stripes, high cheekbones flashing fashion, fortune, and fame, while the war mongers taught us about ourselves in moving pictures, so sure. Sugar soaked hangovers, dragon chasing drunken junk bond junkies––asocial assholes and proud. of. it. And then it sped up. It connected us; for all markets become efficient. Hi-Ho Hi-Ho. Through a past-less hi-fi future came a shrieking soprano dial tone blaring the siren song of our madness––a fire-eyed methamphetamized skeleton weaving his ambulance through the catalytic catastrophe of our social bonds. We never stood a chance; not against that corporate cocaine––that good shit, so pure and free of charge, free of anchoring, unmoored mores because who needs em’, we’ve got caaash, cheese, cheddar. So we danced in our revelry and spit vitriol into our fellows’ salty wounds. We laughed, and whipped as we were taught––Rubes and sadists, all. We god damn this and god damn that, and shake our dead pets’ limp limbs in confusion as to what has happened to that hallowed innocence, those willy worm girls. Gods and pets, they decompose––that is, we rot, we are wrought. And we are rotten. How loosely we lost our love, that of our ancestors’, and how quickly we left shore sans compass, sans map, sans captain––just that we had his hat. Now our children teach us the Promethean promise. Liver pecked immortals we’ll be––aren’t all gods dead in common? Actors bathed in personal spotlight, personalized hell in demand of being called heaven, for who may forsake the lie when the floor is made of her, and by such sweet name and smell when held to flame? Dead wood we stand atop. Yet somehow, to some machinated soundtrack, by some screeching greaseless scared and sacred necessity, we grind out our futures––bones of babes, one against the next––death by dialectic, but be sure we’ll use our refuse in the name of some mauve morality, or whatever rainbow faggotry feels more freeing than yesterday—though we cannot remember, for memory is the only sin of presentism. A thousand year hope must linger, and only because it must, out of the pure demand and will of this entirely unnecessary man who thinks himself his obvious opposite. God make our love stubborn and do damn this wretched machine called hubris, manufacturer of and unto itself. “A better turning of time next, please!” we beg and forge and pity these, our selves, for we cannot seem to change. This thing, man, is basically forever.