st. charles, usa,
another non-dollar, another day.
weird to chronicle this grandest scheme of complacency,
tourists trotting along at a snarling horse's pace,
waddling, shuffling, with slushies and ice cream cones,
grabbing crotches, mulling around on golf carts,
pittering down the piddling streets.
something theatrical to its essence, like shakespherian role-play,
time melts then solidifies.
grave dancers do their thing.
half a foot deep, while the few pretty young things in town are hard to find as and flitter like fireflies flickering stories of skin grafts into the air thick with always amerika smalltown dirty money.
older men with mustaches look like walruses and flop,
couples hold hands,
this is not st. louis,
no sweating buildings incercerated by slumlords,
no gritty youth to play youth's roles.
here, there is the hollow smiling flask of cotton-candy fueled booze
mouths as spiggots for the gin of inauthenticity,
they look like they look here and god is taking sips from them out of the peaked flat churches that they make out of foreclosed car-dealerships and serve more less the same purpose and will foreclose too once gods hubcaps show some rust or become outdated,
I say their SUV;s are suicide machines and they say,
'we dont know what you mean'.
They are still on the freeway out of the city and are driving even when they walk,
their reeboks are tires and ears and nostrils are exhaust pipes, eyes are windows,
always plate glass between the so-called substance and the object,
the cinderblock kids
who want to crush the county beneath bootheels of authentic anarchy are on in a million,
literally, on in a million,
torch SUV's spare no suicide machine,
set fire to sleeping giants.