Walking home from the Western Bus, my favorite bus, at least for now, I drank in the ambrosia of city lights. This ain’t no midcentury Brooklyn burning or Bay Area balming. This was the real deal Midwest middlebrow magic wafting mixed senses at the virtual you, signals not unpsychedelic, influenced by the muddlebrue pietry of the everyday. Breadmoneycashmillionaires breathing from the same chimerican winds of rusted rivers and clotted arteries of cars cresting through the nightsky. This isn’t some slyrish rush hour rhyme, no tucker nor chan, it’s just a toy, just a gram, uncracked, unpatched, unpacked. Cables to the mystic dark, passing through fronting essays ICU hearts and wannabe demons seeking the meal of their lives, because soul is dead.
