Explain nothing, except your self.
I feel like the last of a tribe struggling to keep my identity a secret from the mob, one step ahead at best, reduced to hiding in bushes from the monsters waiting to snag and devour me.
Sort of a delicacy and a poison – a non-specific drug that exudes memes instead of hormones and physical highs – subconscious, primitive analog get-off-ness apparently responsible for some weird competitive advantage consolidating over geological time out of our mixed genus ancestors, or maybe Texans.
At the same time, I feel like spasmed dots from gods own printer cartridge ejaculated onto the canvas of a great emptiness, the thought of which is expressed in the three-dimensional representation of the position I’m braced into while doing the splatting -- all hologram like but only juicier and used -- like an in and out burger wrapper chewed on by a trashcan opossum.
Or better, a goat in a pickup heading for a quinceanera debating Schrödinger with the driver while everyone at the waiting barbeque has already mentally opened the box and are just waiting for the tooth pick to come out clean.
It has been written and all in the book, as the Rasta know and love to hide behind. (It’s hard to imagine a worse wisdom choice than Haile Selassie to follow, except all the others.)
And that’s how I feel – like I’m running out a predetermined race that’s already been won or lost, and I’m the only one that doesn’t know it. Fear the fuel, meat the engine, and mind the arena – all watched by the voices that guide me.
I ask again, “Who are they talking to?”