They all laughed (Daily Planet email #936)
Look under any rock you might find a microcosm of a present condition, if the rock was waxing gibbous, poisoning the ringed and dewy soil, and riddled with people who say the darkness is a fiction created by those in charge to keep you from seeing. At the end of the day: I lost the battle, but scored some merch. A t-shirt that said “Battle Participant.” By this point, our expectations were subject to constant revision. Did we revise them up? No, we did not.
My neighbor’s house has many mansions. They bought low and sold high, leveraged some land and occupied small advantages — what else can I say? …It’s not theft if it’s legal? They invite me to their summer party and their yard guy shovels my sidewalk sometimes. Is this the tight-lipped smile of fortune? Depends on who’s asking, I mean, who wants to know? I’m not invited to their Derby parties, I should note. Turns out I spook the horses, and who can give a reason? Wise men never try.
It would seem that things have been degraded. You can see it in the oxidized streaks, the brake shoe pile, the men their heads under the hood. We fenced in the wild things so their disorder wouldn’t infect our intentions, our piles of tires, our pallet towns, our corrugated angles and our efflorescing brick. It would seem that we like this, because we stay? It’s like when we carried a dream out of our heads like a body from a pool party. We couldn’t tell whose arms were whose and therein lies the victory, howling in plentiful, low adjectives.
These are the things that go by in a space of note outside of me. The pigeons and the tags, the broken windows and flaccid windsock. Spires and smokestacks, sheets of condos invasive in the distance, a hundred treats in an acme of garbage. A lake’s mist dresses the towers in an aerosol shawl, the protesters echoing off a massed and mounted ambivalence. <redacted>? Same. Caravaggio only shows Saint Paul’s response to the heavenly realm.
They all laughed at Fulton and his steamboat. Gosh, he was so mad, he backed out of the marina lickety-split at like two miles an hour. You could still see his puffy, glowering expression as he laboriously turned the wheel and put it in forward, his face redder with each passing minute. I swear, if you could have turned the paddle blades with the steam coming out his ears, he could’ve made eight miles an hour, easy. If we’re still here in a couple hours when he’s out of sight, we’ll get the last laugh. The ill-considered was, at least, considered.