If I eat a healthy dinner tonight, it will be the first time in weeks I didn’t go out of my way to eat something eventually fatal and last night I watched a film about the Stanford Prison Experiments. I smoked cigarettes and took a Vicodin before bed. Tonight I want to drink, smoke more cigarettes, do anything but take photographs of strangers in Chicago, city of no meaning.
When I think about Memphis, I remember the alcohol high four weeks ago, walking down Main Street after watching a band at a punk rock bar, alternating between the musicians and the hockey game on television, with my wife, and then to my right was the sign for the Lorraine Hotel, lit up like history and King and shots and highs of whiskey, shots of bullets and sometimes I only think about Taoism, when I’m not thinking about Memphis.
“Hello, I don’t know what to write anymore.”
I’ve spent some time in the Black Hills, and it’s as spiritual a place to me as the river in New Orleans and Ping Tom Park in Chicago, also off a river, right in Chinatown.
A woman yelled at me there once.
She spoke Mandarin, with really pissed off eyes.
Never found out why she was so angry.
Maybe it was Cantonese.
In Post Climate Times, Cheyenne will eventually run out of water, but not out of shadows or EPA friendly body-bags and the city of Chicago is filled with tall gravestone buildings where people read social media instead of newspapers and tell everyone what to think at all times, asshole. As a species, our derangement is evident through even the strongest denial for those who think too much about…that fucker, right over there, looking all weird and shit.
Life moves in a circle and my pages are filled with dead roaches.
And dead buildings.
I think it was Mandarin.
Tonight I’m having fried chicken for dinner.