No Chance to Live

They live on the sides of highways eating dust. They can be found in alley cardboard castles taking hits of sewer steam. Their eyes are glass hits of acid and turpentine and they still see 10 colors of the rainbow; hearing in thermal frequencies and thinking in ultra-violet, a world hacking to pieces perceptions and ideas and the emotions they see in city smog. And they refuse it. And I drive past cardboard signs stapled to chests asking for freeze-dried fruits non-GMO and organic non-perishables only please, and the sweat caked dirt on my face and body, neuro-rigid hands can’t grip the steering-wheel. I am dying. My head and my chest are ripping open under $60,000 of blood-signed diploma spending 50 hours a week in sun sweat manual labor to feed the cradle. I am supposed to be writing a novel. I am making monthly payments to an insurance company I can’t afford to stop or it wastes gas I can’t afford new pants with a crotch hole already. I am no different.

Where did we go.

What killed gonzo? What shot the tail of the lizard king and burned the strawberry fields. What chopped off the highway thumbs and incestuated the rebellious romance.

Cardboard stapled to concrete walls keeps out the cold where they blow cock and bathsalts: fluorescent lights fuck the pupils prostrate in cubicles making payments on endless debt.

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