Soldiers Don't Need Happy Endings...

2.10.09

A bus just crashed. A big yellow one. It smashed right into the stone barricade along the street. A couple of kids bloodied body's lay on the side of the street, the bus driver's head is on the steering wheel, blood splattered all over the large windshield in front of her.... wait, I sense this impending scene of doom before I turn around to gaze back at the sound that has permeated my skull. A sound of smashing glass and squealing tires. Bending metal, screaming children, the brakes of the cars behind the bus also screaming. Me on the sidewalk, fate in the air. Who's going to stop I think. The bus is crashed over some concrete abutment, next to a faded and chipped mint green street light towering into the noon- day sky. Un-illuminated. There's a bunch of children running off the bus, the bus driver, as I had thought, her head was basically rolling around on the edge of the road. The stop sign of the bus was extended and everyone was sitting in their cars waiting for the crashed bus to withdraw so they could continue. Each one in their A/C, cell phone, utopia. One child picked up the drivers head and was trying to attach it back on the drivers body.... A man in a silver sedan pulled along the bus, a cop sped by the bus, sirens blaring, tracking down a speeder in a speed trap; part of the tangled web of social lies. Another fly in the web, just flying by. But now were caught in the trap, the machine, waiting for the big daddy to come home, pluck us from his web, roll us up in his green dollar sarcophagus, eight legs of fear. The man jumps out of the silver sedan, his spaceship of the road, and proceeds to throw bloodied children into his... trunk? Wtf crosses my mind as does the thin bitch with the pink bag walking by me on the sidewalk. I'm sitting by a tree, off the sidewalk of this busy thoroughfare. After the man throws about seven kids into the trunk, he speeds off somewhere down the road, beyond my viewpoint. I lay down on the grass, look up at the sky, hands behind my head. Got some cheap binoculars aimed at the sky, trying to find angry angels I guess. A police car cordons off the area, ignores me, takes the remaining dead bodies, opens a manhole cover, throws them into it, fucks the headless bus driver and drives away. Nice, I thought. A strong, alien wind blows. One of those winds that has a cold feeling to it, one that if you were standing up, just might knock you over. I get up to wander away and my phone rings, or vibrates. I grab it out of my pocket after a couple vibrations. Sometimes, it just makes your balls feel good. A calm voice on the other line says, "hey, come here. 15 blocks, NW." I begin walking as the bus explodes behind me. Walking as the world explodes behind me. Figuratively, unfortunately. I'd always like to be the guy walking, chilled- out, away from an exploding metropolis, with the towers burning behind me. One of the guys with the reflections of fire in his aviator glasses, hot on the trot of filthy, utilitarian post- apocalyptic sex. Toxic ash in the streets, strippers named Destiny, Anastasia, Porsche, blown out limousines on fire, lost dogs with leashes on. Livin' to love, lovin' to hate. You know we're barkin' up the wrong tree. There's a lot to hate. But I love some things. I love the parking lots at dusk, I love how the streets lights flicker on in the heat of the night, I love the writing in the sidewalk, the world behind the windows, the faces behind the masks, the struggle, the fight, the impossible. I love the pit of the stomach feeling too, it's the internal bubble moving upward, slowly fading into an unreachable oblivion. I call it love. Or the love of hatred. Whichever. There are few things more spiritually moving than sitting with someone you love, in an isolated smoke- filled basement room, half incoherent, naked with the TV on, the sheets halfway withdrawn, dreaming of tomorrow. But out there on the cold, mean streets aren't we just like all the other people passing by on the road to nowhere. On the phone, in the air conditioning, with the fast food on the passenger seat, screaming at the kids in the backseat, lighting up a J in the rec room, fucking the babysitter, debating about getting rid of cable, sleeping in the toxic lullaby of pharmaceutical bliss, sitting in the morning traffic jam, breathing in fumes, ants going into the machine, love is for teenagers, FOX news, no news, blackout, whiteout, big sale, no sale, dollar off, free gift, love is free, hate makes your skin wrinkle, buy now, save up, spend more, spend less, love more, hate less, flush when your done and turn off the lights. I'm starting to get used to this, and I say bless you, all you beautiful, beautiful people.