Dream Car

2008:
Don't join the militia. I'm afraid for you, afraid you're the one; my beloved con artist. Wake up early, orange and senseless with me. Struggle and gasp; play in your underwear. You are ripe, so don't join the militia. You missed your freedom train; you missed your underground darling, and it's killing me to tell you to be safe. You make the mother in me protect you between my legs, a spider web you can't quite get out of your teeth. Ready for everything; you're a revolutionary morning. Its crippling our happy nest and makes the babies afraid.
The militia gives you protection, we used all the protection. It has been days in hiding, and the government has your information on tap. You're tracked, like a GPS -collared dog. This is the future, this is the now. You are sending out signals; your bar codes and magnetic strips make you obvious prey. Through all this you hold a Deniro taxi driver pose, we can never live like the seventies.
I'm setting your levels for the next stage; I've plotted your flight plan, packed a lunch. I wont watch the revolt; I'll be singing in the stables to a satanic horse, if not painting one. You are marking territory, pissing, punching targets. You make graffiti with my skin. Fire your pistol in the air or fire into me. You are now healing up; laying hands on the sick. I'll upgrade your continental breakfast to a feast for soldiers who cant be bothered.
I cannot breathe today, like any other day. The pills and bills and cigarettes are a tumor to me now. Don't ask about the weather; I'm interfacing with the Goddess as well as multitasking myself sick. I can feel the vibration of the angry militia, graceless buffalo trip up the stairs. Sometimes I long to hang a picture of Audrey Hepburn outside, to at least remind them of some delicacy and unobtrusiveness. But, I cannot; when I go outside, old men in bleached white shirts with beer bellies and handguns look at me. My goal is to see the men in cars, shirtless and tan, their muscles glistening in the burning atmosphere.
Today, I was a wretched capitalist; my head was engorged with fake fur and gaudy rings; a momentary pillow for my helplessness. You began to tell the story of your day, as you always do- a cigar falling from your mouth but never lit, a glass of whiskey and ice. The stories unfold but you are a distraction sent from Hell- you are so handsome that you distract yourself. Peeling off your clothes, makes me think of fruit and flesh. Your artist hands are mine; our bodies are interchangeable and classic. "The lack of common courtesy," you'd say, as you peeled your white tee away from your caramel flesh. Your eyes were like candied emeralds, facets of so many colors it was incomprehensible. They always darkened when you were saddened. When you smiled, the same green eyes opened up like heaven. Your hair was wild, defiant of your efforts, and dark as a black hole. Then you close them and we match our breathing patterns to the insect lives outside our window.
You're up before me and upset again. The powerlessness you feel to stop suffering turns to rage in the steam of the summer sun.
“The Internet was invented by the Pentagon to distract us all,” you yelled, and left me in the blue face of the morning. I turned away from your madness, back into my own.
When I was younger, I believed in the promise of science and modernism that were made to geekish boys with books in their corduroy laps, reading about flying cars, and colonization. My faith in such things has mostly passed.
I lie in bed , frustrated with the promise of technology. As any forthright citizen may choose to do, I buy the necessary tools for my habitat. I lie in bed, and somewhere a set of new parents meets the man to talk about their order for a child. They cross off a genetic checklist, and erase the chaos that is beautiful.
This town, this world, feels backwards; like being in a buggy with a confused horse- the passengers are all asleep. My cold relation is to machines, and I accept the consequences of electronic addiction- but i want my damned flying car. Where is my promised dream car of tomorrow?