Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Shit Smells Like Hamburger

He started listening to a lot of Afrocentric jazz. Archie Shepp. A few others he hardly knew the names. He would cruise iTunes late at night, looking for trouble. Just about anything he could wrap his wallet around that had long black legs and the smell of deep dark whiskey blind alley falling down in the alley heart to it. He must have spent a few thousand dollars. He would listen to the albums one at a time, but only one time. Somewhere he had seen a documentary about Attica and it stuck to his soul like butter on the knife. He had this feeling that he could reach out and touch the sixties like a pair of tits in the night. But it was all before his time, out of reach. And he had a day job. He'd wind up sitting in his cubicle early in the morning, eyes like bowls of red cherry juice dripping over the sides, thinking about human sacrifice. Sometimes Matisse would creep in there and leave something on the doorstep of his mind. Then he'd run the numbers through the database and hope that nobody would throw any fire drills at him that day. Sometimes they'd have a meeting in the afternoon and he'd sit listening to the speaker phone with his eyes half open, praying that no one in the room noticed. Then he'd go home and do it all over again, dreaming of Travis Bickle, pretending to shoot his imaginary .45 deep into the pockets of all the fat cats everywhere in the world. He tried to imagine what it would be like to live in a tent city in Haiti. Those luxury hotels like monopoly plastic all over the board. The State Department foots the bill.

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