Neon Whips

My throat is tight like the neon whips above the bar door. My voice is flat like warm soda when I’ve yelled too much or sobs have robbed my chords like a stoner hand in mom’s purse. And the shades are drawn. The doors snap back. Tears bleed down my face like some wrestler paint of yesteryear as I flee the scene and the club sharks and all the Ambers and Kellys and Jessicas and the fake palms and dry gins and I’m tired of being the lacey Dick Tracy. I’m tired of squashing the fire in the disco with fluid movements. I’m tired of squashing the fire in my soul with fluid movements. I’m tired and I’m scared and I feel like I’m peeking during church camp prayer in 5th grade. I feel like I’m peaking in this awkward era; 22 and so many wasted nights, wasted times, wasted friends, just… wasted.

But it’s better now that 2002 has passed like a ghostship in murky, misty, midnight waters. 2002 is no Space Odyssey. There were no cues, no signs of stopping and my skull felt crushed from the beginning of time. But that ape grew up and learned to drive and learned to civilize. Dialing in. 7th caller. Tickets for two. You and me and the morning light – shimmering tuxes and draped gowns. Decadent shells for the descendents of light rail pioneers and cul-de-sac cowboys. It’s all mixed up, you see. We’re supposed to have it ALL. We’re supposed to be the driving force our generation needs to generate itself, generate culture, but instead we’re left whining and grasping and sucking on the proverbial teat of the taxes; “What a strange bedfellow” they say. No, only the nerds. The careful ones. Those who find middle ground between cowardice and recklessness. But that’s just Plato-minded drivel – stuff that makes your head swivel. Back and forth, a disagreeing “no,” I don’t think so. So? Let’s take this outside, no?