Right now, we’re all “stop, don’t shoot” and discrimination as religious freedom and chokeholds and Christmas trees and Rolling Stone and CIA torture and “I wanna text my friend” and what the fuck are Furries and no treble and suburban storage units and I can’t breathe.
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When I look up into the mist and the strewn-about grey clouds of mid-December, I see not a thing resembling the magic of a season that’s been on sale for months. BOGO. 50% off. Green Monday. Giving Tuesday. Act now.
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2014 America is a suffocating place.
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There’s a dullness to my shape, where once were points and hard edges are now rounded borders, the auburn clay and white chalk of track and field endeavors encasing the pitch of battle, arm’s length upon arm’s length removed from anything resembling action and visceral energy and meaningful contact.
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We’re in a stupor, drunk on retweets of viral stupidity. #SorrynotSorry
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I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t move a muscle to throw a punch into the air, to cut through the piss and vinegar and pot smoke and crumbled up newspapers blowing off the top of a rusted metal bin that’s never getting emptied. Yesterday’s forgotten headline. Quarterly earnings report disappointment. Ball games decided by a referee’s whistle.
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Everything is petty and cheap; the shit we won’t stop buying, the shit we say, the shit the shit the shit. We’ll be furious about something exciting and new tomorrow and then again and again. Exciting is new. New is desirable.
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We’re disposable and our anger is worthless.
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We can’t breathe.
We can’t breathe.
We can’t breathe.
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