lost and found in death.

I'm at the amusement park, it's raining and the words are slithering off the page. trying to escape somewhere. Sitting and watching all the people strolling by, all lost in life, hair flowing and eyes dancing. I am lost and found in death.  I fear it, and am apologetic in it's eyes, slobbering and begging. the end of every man. The amusement park - the place I can never get lost in - no shadow is too concealing, each corner begs for light. In death, I am lost and found. The coaster dips and dives. these playful death traps and screaming humanity. I am so alive and fear death. God, I fear death and my humanity. The coaster is alive too, laughing at me in the face. Making my insides feel like a can of soup, on a truck-ack, to be sorted, to face death. Unsettled and restless, I am and will be - for a while. A can of soup, a man afraid like the rest, riding a roller coaster. Watching all the people walk by, all lost in life.

the man on the bus.

the man on the bus is curled up in the back corner. we have never met, but i know him well. i've stared into his dark, sullen eyes, like a starless urban sky - blind and vacant. his alcohol breath sways, crashin' into me like waves, putting me to pieces and sweeping me up after breakfast. he has no words. i have no words. we are two strangers riding a crowded city bus together - our wayward glances colliding and the smell of piss permeating, becoming our sacred aroma. human static buzzin' in our ears, all the same, consistent and long as the engine hum. riding on the bus - our makeshift, reluctant communion - taking all the people to their places, our separate nests, our private colonies. the man on the bus is in my eyes, shriveled up in the corner, like the flowers on my kitchen table.

going to mexico and nowhere.

how the morning lets my hatred go,

up and down,

to and fro - like restless ghosts.

frantically fanatical,

"ugh large one"

as blood runs dry.

god, i don't give a shit.

at a time when i don't give a shit,

breeding

unabashed and reckless disregard and

feeling so happy they're getting back on their bus.

floating blissful in unconsciousness,

like babies in a cradle,

cries immutable:

love, simple pleasures, and vomit shit stained shirt.

going back to mexico and nowhere.

douglas coupland.

trend bar outlet franchise lifestyle,

faceless fabric,

sucking on chicken wire legs,

like self righteous, sheepish leeches,

patronizing the dispersed central (us) america,

and liberating aliens,

escaping other planets;

places I'd tried to fall into

and out of 

time.

"they're simple and fit well"

he said,

he felt,

strongly.

i felt nothing.

"i want the exotic raspberry,"

a hippie vegan booster juice trickery,

mainstream subculture,

selling to the dark.

"ridiculous"

he said,

he felt.

"yes, quite, very."