This morning I strode beneath the sun, down the concrete hillside, past the rotten smells of fast food squalor and retched derelict human husks lounging outside same. Benny Goodman’s Orchestra followed by Beastie Boys followed by LMF followed by Squirrel Nut Zippers and cadence of my footfall belies my willful lack of concerns, fears, insecurities put to bed, should be buried, might they pass away there, let me get on with the business at hand, all the business real, imagined, self-issued or recruited or assumed or seemingly indentured or pressed into. All the kings men are me when I am king of myself. On this morning I walk into where my cash flow comes from, steadily drawing closer to the factory of benign dreams, corporate sponsored wallet pillagers, and I have the right hat on to block the direct gaze of the sun, keep the glare out of my eyes, allow me enough objective shade to take things as they are, remain calm, hit the deck smiling and drive forward all the pillars of salt need be shoved to make my parts of this bitter casserole.
Hey Pachuco! Royal Crown Review adds hits to accent the style of each step, Hey! Hey! Hey! Slow it down a little and waltz through the lobby, all the elevators sit with maws open wide, hungry birds beneath their single legible eyes spelling out G, G, & G; letters shaped like Yahtzee sixes glowering red with promise of devil’s kisses and 8 prospective floors of misses amiss.
More Benny Goodman. From sixty gigs of music, what the odds, what the hell, get Slim like Whitman, and on and on, go on and on, go faster, pussycat, kill… kill. Thrill Kill. Further to flow with the tempo, three feet high and rising, give the bass a clef, a Wycliffe, a pain in the midriff and bent double to further and all the better appreciate, this curious. Twist of fate. Of late.