THE MERICANS: PRESSING BUTTONS AT THE WINNER MITTEN CASINO

HIGH LORDS

Waking up at seven in the morning a day after driving around for two days. Doing what? I’m not sure.

We were just driving around, five cities in two days; driving with a soundtrack of folk and indie music through town after town, so many places where people live, and those other places, where people shouldn’t live.

Before she got there I was taking notes by hand in new libraries and places where hometowns have been replaced by casinos. After, I was watching as she played the slots and talking to Betty Boots and Bartholomew Sanchez, only two names among tens of thousands of names. Standing and being dirty and out of place and under constant surveillance by men in baggy JC Penny suits who were really only this time last year, unemployed country boys starving for a chance. And now, well here’s your chance. Now, these people have jobs and eyes in sky with cameras and nice black dress shoes on while they’re taking down names for the business men who collect the money from plastic cards that’s loaded with the old money from those who don’t have anywhere else to spend it.

Smoking and debauchery not only allowed, but encouraged, and gambling given away for free for a second, and at first glance you would think holy smokes this aint a bad idea at all. You might even tell me to calm down man, because people are just having fun, unwinding; one big family of the future of the winning, and soon after, after the stakes vanish into the kaleidoscope of hoax, after you’re in the system and your name has been computerized again, well after that, you’re hooked.

Depression, the laughing at depression and why not, why not spend dollars like pennies because we’re all going to die anyway. Cops waiting for the drunkards who leave at four in the afternoon when the well is gone, when the drinks have loosened your mind up on just another Saturday afternoon. When the eyes are heavy and standing in the middle of the casino I was looking for Sarah but I couldn’t find her, everything looked the same, and I started to shake because looking at all of the lights, the video games for adults, the colors and the cha-ching, the slots, the dice, the respirators rolling and see-through glass ashtrays handed out with a free sampling of smokes; the girls in short skirts with saucers of beer and, “yeah I’ll take one” I said. “No, I better take two” I said.

“OK.  two dollars” she said.

“OK, here’s a two dollar bill. How’s that for ya’, and some quarters…”

The building gets smaller and smaller as the minutes go by and into the system my name goes because they give tokens away for free, the players card as they call it. Sarah needed another chance, I didn’t want to play the games, because ha, life is enough of a gamble for men like me.

It’s all so circular and childish, but this is the new economy in Michigan.  Waiting for your money, and so here’s a question: should it be allowed to go down like this?

The rest in…

A FLASK

Taken from The Book, A Spontaneous Revolution (2010)

“It is the future generation that presses into being by means of
these exuberant feelings and super sensible soap bubbles of ours.”
Schopenhauer

 

I carry my luggage through the door and right away I’m surrounded by complete madness. Homeless men selling candy bars for two dollars a pop with wrappers that haven’t been seen since the late eighties, and my ears ring from the excessive use of electronic equipment that is beeping and sounding like the death of metal, and HERE IS YOUR AMERICA I say out loud as I’m slap in the middle of just one of hundreds of slaughterhouses that we call so innocently, the bus terminal.

Men and women returning home and body bags and sand bags and human bodies that are soulless bags terrorizing the lost beings and bags of chips being ripped apart and rapidly consumed, Amish hats and lines of pay phones and overflowing toilets and a tall black police officer is telling me to, get out the way and go…
Where… I ask
Sit down and wait like everyone else he says.

I can feel it. The Upper part of my shoulder is bleeding from the strap of my pack and I can feel the blood slowly rolling down my back as I’m walking trying to find some napkins and it seems that I’m always walking by all of this, walking by and under the no smoking signs in a place where you can’t breathe anyway.

Sounds of everything and tickets punched ATM machines and Vending Machines and cleaning the blood in a stall with no door… and, are you done yet man…
Sure all yours…

And all of this is so new to me and I’m for some reason use to it already, as if I was born worn down, born with a lowly bruised and beaten down low soul to the ground dragging with dirty shoes and born man, as if I was born used to all of this, to the brushing of my teeth in a dirty sink next to men that look stereotypically what the whites say on TV, are those who may be down the street and look out because they could be, sexually deviant.
The news doesn’t know shit. I didn’t either, well before, and yeah man sure, here’s my toothpaste…
Long day, right…
Always I say, as he tells me to…
Keep your head up. Life is a long journey. You remember that and you’ll be…
Ok? I ask…
Maybe…

Were now driving next to the Mountains. I can’t think of anything, nothing but beauty, and it’s amazing; The Mountains for some reason cause me to think about death, I don’t know why, and I wasn’t pissed or anything, but still only me and the mountains and the beauty and, the death.
What year is it again, the day and the month?

WAIT… and well who knows the truth of actual time but last year was 2009. I slept through the new year after going back home for Christmas and now, damn, how, yeah, I’m on this bus that’s spinning like a top my imagination of what I never even thought was a country, but I guess somehow we stick together to form the great big ol’ U.S.A.

And I snoozed for about thirty and as I looked at the cliffs rubbing my eyes I pick up my pen and I’m cracking my digits as the bus carries on as the wheels just like that old song, the melody that always put me to sleep…

Cracking my neck and back and writing down in my pad-oh man what am I doing- I say to myself…
Huh, the guy next to me says…

Oh talking to myself, I mumble with hesitation as I look briefly around the Bus, not wanting to carry on with any type of, conversation…

On The Bus Thoughts: Apple Juice

MORE TO COME IN THE BOOK…

a flask of gin