Pushing hard east on Michigan Avenue. Fireballing through traffic lights. The burn in the gut helping to burn down everything else. Because it is the kind of night to not really give a fuck. Just like every other night in these godforsaken flyover fields.
The compulsion is always to put things with things. Even when there isn’t a handle to hold. Or a viable exit strategy. If I’ve learned anything over the years, it is that there is always something else left to lose. So it’s always a scramble to maintain some semblance of a grip.
But everything eventually slips away anyway.
Behind spinning tires lingers the stink of tin monsters. Those temperamental, dual-engined beasts. The ones nightly vomiting out “need it right the fuck now” consumerism. The ones throwing mechanical temper tantrums. Then streaking brown across a mittened sky. At least when not trapped leaking and broken on 517 tarmac.
And they just keep fucking coming.
Ahead, glimpses of the rotunda. A view intentionally aligned with the road. I guess to help channel the suck. Or maybe it was just someone’s attempt at clever design. But somehow, I think they missed the mark. Because the view really isn’t that pretty.
The glowing capitol a beacon above the bare skeletons of an exhausting winter. Undressed trees line the avenue. Street creatures, bundled against the arctic hassle, pinball through the muck. Sloppy streets, plowed like an awkward teen makeout session, shimmer in headlights still covered in ice.
I am left downshifting through the wet poverty of it all. Indifferent to the sprawl of decay. Everything feels heavy. And hostile. Including me. So I had to keep rolling.
I knew that I was burning out. Burning up amidst the snow squalls. Feeding the fire with new triggers of stupidity. Because I didn’t know which direction to run.
I foolishly thought that there would be time. And opportunity. A chance for love. And to be loved. To maybe write something real for a change. And not this constant stream of “pour me,” whiny bullshit.
But nothing ever changes.
I am still stuck in the land of hostile Q.D. Donut Munchers; she is still going to die. And no amount of clever writing is ever going to change that. So there is only regrettable acceptance left to fill the void.
But I’m refusing that delivery. Sorry, fucker. No one competent is here to sign for those adulty things. Maybe try again on a different night. One when my wheels aren’t spinning. Or when the weather isn’t quite so bitchy.
It’s been a long, lonely winter. The springtime feels a lifetime away. Her lifetime.
Everything is left a scramble. Holding on like gripping a fistful of sand. Watching everything slip. Blowing away on the Michigan wind.
Every new fall from grace hurts just a little bit more.
These words are fucking killing me.
I should have danced with her when we had the chance…