They call the losses progress, and write them rhythmically in the ledgers -as gains- to the sound of lawn sprinklers, and get away with triumphant bank accounts which open doors to high rooms vaulting into blue skies behind glass. You think you would but you wouldn’t want to be there. It’s cold and light. And the light is cold, too. I promise the world is easier to take when less experienced. The barriers between us breathable. Someone is wicking away my moisture and I’m not too happy about it, I coulda sold it high on the water mark exists below the levée, some day. You meanwhile are being yourself and doing what you do, working really hard, sharing it with someone and yourself. They wick it away and charge our credit cards. I never cried so hard as the sweat lodge losses. Congratulations on reaching your (earnings) potential, America. I wanna say I’m proud of you, but you see I am way below mine on purpose. I guess I like to suffer zero balances, every once in a while feels like I’m alive in a capitalist plot reserved for us over here.
The local legends are legendary, and so are you, too, full of codes and dotted lines, signing with the strangest of signs. The runners got confused and ran backwards cross the bases and back into the dugouts which could only be uncarved and replanted in the earth as trees, encircled by swaths of honeycomb and bees, and it was like a land before time that progress took away. We walked to a local show to see your friend, an old man wide in the eyes and young in the heart, clear in the mind playing the blues what with a small silver briefcase full of blues harps behind him and walks with a cane. All the while I was hoping to reach my potential (but not really trying) when I locked the keys in the car again and had to fuck all and get a coat hanger. We manipulated everything wonderfully, you and me. You won’t remember the guy sittin on a bench between here and there, looked pretty bad and hadn’t been chosen in a while by anything but a park and a bench outta place. In the distance (in the memories) a local legend was picking the blues and won’t be around for long. I wanna be a local legend some day, too. For now I am non-local and legendary, but only to you.