Pollen

New York City — Autumn 1998

Everywhere and even up here and down there and all around I witness the birth of the anti-life within the mouths of babies and adults alike; kissing the ground with lipstick coated lips; traces upon dirty napkins and used condoms, tasting the dirt on teeth and trying to remove the bitter pieces which get stuck in between at times. Around the corner a priest is singing songs about nakedness and lost values of the insane who wander this fucked up junk heap called life and he is masturbating to hymns only heard by the irreverent.

Now, that’s funny.

Somewhere near the bandshell a composer rips his eyes out and tries to place the notes on the staff with careful precision. He can hear the music that is being ruined by the musicians who shoot junk near bag ladies who only want a little fuck now and then and I know he’s willing to oblige. That’s just the way things are these days; a tune so lost in the muck, it’s hard not to laugh at the conductor who tries to maintain order with a limp penis and dried cum on his hands. It isn’t over yet but the death knell has sounded.

The birds fall from the trees and the sleeping dogs hardly notice a thing.