Icarus's blog: "Hurts to watch."

I've been down this same scope for six years.
No matter how many times I try, I can' seem to get the fix. Orange dust in my fingers, missed calls, a hundred notes.
Doesn't have much to do with anything now does it?

Space confines as strangers confide and electronic impulse synchopates to a soft wave of rhythm.
Don't know but I bet it'd be scarlet.
And I bet it'd taste like ginger.
Spicey, prone to cause awakenings.

Another day in my cave.
Pretending to be all forms of heroic.
But that's my day job.
Nobody sings the songs about pacifist service.
No one writes epics when you push the wheel downhill to save a kid's life.
It's always surgeons, always chemists, scientists.
What of the hive?
The paper pushers, the myopic processors
the overheated undercaffeinated customer reps
their headsets fried like pancakes
dripping with glazed insults and impatient shrieking.

I saved a life this week.
Maybe not every week
where's my god damn parade?
Where's my tiny stack of bottle caps
my bobblehead likeness
my face plastered on your T-shirts?

These days we'll give any crackpot their day.
Someone with passable video editting skills, or some vapid whore that caused drama on semi-live television after standing in line 6 hours in a miniskirt to audition.
Because everyone knows california is the center of the universe.
And your rich white ass knows what I like
what I want
and what I need.

Pulse.
Your fingers are on the very pulse of the people
the youth market
the streets

you wanna talk pulse
life and death dramatics
dynamic beats

you wanna talk the streets?

Try going on a smoke break with another beat-down working stiff that just did what little they could for someone checking their mail by the grace of an old post office box while they sleep in the car with their three kids
tell someone on their last week of unemployment they're too rich
tell a dirt smeared grubby new mother that the state pulled her resource for food for three months due to a god damn clerical error.

Then we can talk about the streets.
We can talk about urban youth markets when I don't even wake up for the gunshots any more.

We can talk about american value when we all struggle to make a living while you ride that crispy wafer on top laying off another five thousand because you weren't making a killing.
You can only afford ONE yacht this year.
Cry into your bountiful wallets, filled with absorbant green cash.
Now quilted for your comfort.

Made in China.
Hecho en Mexico.
A product of your environment.