What you should know, James, is that too many selfies vacates the soul and ironic-narcissism is still narcissism. But so anyways: later on this week when you’re waiting for departure on a plane that lays on the runway like an anaconda that’s just eaten a rabbit, you’ll look out at the rain-slashed tarmac…
“Our troops,” some subaltern’ll report, “have gone to the topless bar.” This is crushing news. “The campaign is lost,” you’ll say in despair. “Because of girls without shirts.”
When your cruise ship sinks in the Bermuda Triangle you’ll become rather over familiar with the other survivors in the crowded lifeboat. “Is this some kind of joke?” a poor lady’ll ask, smelling of pee and crying in your arms. “Is it a just a huge prank?” Which doesn’t seem so far from the truth: even the sharks grin as they pass clicking and whirring just beneath the bows.
Having walked all day along a cold and desolate beach you’ll come at last to one lone tall home standing nearly in the waves to confront boldly the rising inky tide. Trying the door won’t work. Instead, reach just under the front porch at the right of the steps to find the sea-rusted keys.
So the (metaphorical/real) highway curls about the seaside cliffs and the sun ascends on silver stairs and many are the roads that lead into the besmogged valley of Dream City—
Stopping at the roadhouse for a break from the motorcycle you’ll know full well that a swift roundhouse kick in the face is the fastest way to take care of ass clowns and other such douches who try to avail against your more poetic sensibility when you begin reading your poetry out loud at the bar.