| ::03:13:08::
::: 7: Residual Chemicals :::
There are people running and cars.
You can see something without thinking in America.
Run, run, run, run, run and do not think.
In the street there is a camera trying to focus on a beautiful, vogue girl, a businessman and an indescribable cloud of white dust tilting and growing in the mirror of an open car door.
I think I am dead; I am dead, am I dead?
When I died the vogue model becomes the scream.
The vogue model becomes the scream.
I remember the drawings of Robert Longo and there he is in this new dawn of September. He is a fat man, not the limber one I remember. He is arrested, suspended in a white shirt psychosis with his tie in a zero gravity spasm.
White dust is eating the asphalt city in seconds.
I am a Stephen King novel.
Being out of breath will not matter for the fat businessman whose lungs are filling with the dust of hundreds.
It is midmorning. I am running with the others.
I am in a city in America.
I am running.
I do not understand.
I am not an animal. I can control patience.
Animals can and cannot wait.
They can wait for the right moment to kill food.
Running faces, no heads and just heads registering moments that don’t count as surreal unless you are there.
That being there includes the possible fear, anger and automatic laughter that may occur out of just trying to survive.
Animals understand this instinct. I understand that I may be instinctual.
Run, run, run, run, and run to the gate.
What gate?
Just run to something as if whatever object or location or architecture is a gate. It could be a camera, a car or camera or a camera or a camera as a new religion.
It could be a religious experience but it isn’t.
This is not serious. It is not an intimate feeling. This comes from my intestines like a Guston painting.
Breathless and running is not true but heavy breathing, panting and running is true. I am running and breathing like a dog, panting.
I am committed to something that is heavy as lead.
I am committed to this America.
This is America?
This is America.
I am in the street of a city in the dawn of September.
I am still running.
I am running.
I run.
Written by: ~ J.D. Szalla |
