Where Was I Going With This...

Bright pastel letters in a bubbly font denoted the brand of soda that would fizz the first sentence of my obituary.
.............

Oh, that my life should flash before my eyes at the gaping mouth grill of a behemoth semi-truck, story-and-a-half-high, engine like the voracious growling stomach of six satanic dogs, a doom tank and in a hurry…

I had the Walk symbol, but was frozen. The gears shifted, groaning like axed titanium timber as this boxy war slug lurched to turn right, the two of us meeting on oil-splattered blacktop.

America, you do not need this much Faygo.

A B-29 on wheels is turning on red, discontent to wait, it’s speeding forth for you, fire at its ass, through the crosswalk, clear traffic in the early morning, pre-rush-hour; it must sate the thirst for dyed liquid sugar.

I’m going to be run over by a beautiful (effectively-big) representation of where this country’s priorities are at – I’ll be flattened onto the avenue, right in with that sun-baked oil stain.

I wake up every morning and the screen keeps shuffling more headlines. If we feel angry-enough, singing along to the words of the pundits and the bloggers with our appropriately affixed scowls, furrowed brows and knowing tisks, scoffs and curdled exertions of disgust, then some strange chemical in our brain glows a soothing emerald green and spills all around our cerebellum, cooing us into feeling like our pissed-off-ness demonstrates our conviction.

But the headlines will keep scrolling and one side will keep pointing towards the other and the other right back in turn; if the world’s really going down (as water levels rise), if an apathetic majority’s acquiescence is climbing at the same rate of a devious minority’s reach of clamping control, if we’re all so much in a hurry…that we can’t be bothered with…all that weight…

Then the best I feel I can do, right now, is write…

...and aspire beyond the re-tweet...

more soon then