Who Wants to Party?
Within a fake elevator, I ride high into the sky, shooting up past the edge of the Catskills, over the sill of Slide Mountain. This could be how a heavy rocket feels, how it all looks so small, assembled with blue and green frosting.
Breathe, beast, breathe. It’s not bad to be sat inside a box suspended in the heavens. It is more than any thermionic map could ever imagine. Real eyes touching real space. The curl of the Hudson as it fades into haze, a distant hint of those New York castles, the concrete canyons where yearning bursts under siren and strobe.
Sometimes, I want to put my finger back in that electric socket. I can already taste the metal, I can guzzle the trouble. The intentional sleeplessness, the metropolitan swells and buckling steel — a superfluous circulatory system, a limbic orchestra composed of headlights, tail lights, enlightened, inebriated chaos.
Coming down, back down on northern earth, I tap the keg and control the foam. I play Led Zeppelin 3, challenging anyone to wrestle over flipping the cassette to Cream, even though everyone here could probably kick my ass. This life and this mind were the ones I chose. I’m good with that, I’m good with whatever gold these space gloves can dig up. Even if I only get twigs and bones and decaying leaves upon cold cheeks.
Anyway, who wants to party?
