Prelude to Vitriol

As I lie on my bed I contemplate the smooth curve of my viscera, contained within a plaster of pale skin criss-crossed by an irrigation system of veins and arteries, cradled between hip bone buttresses.

Apparently in a careful balancing act a little silver ball, smaller than a pea, rests atop my belly. And all that bullshit about facing your fears to overcome them, and all those needles poking through that little girl who had to be held down for her vaccinations and I still hate this place.

Nearly 400,000 people in this arbitrarily designated city, 3.9 million people in this giant sprawl of urban area that makes up my home town. Ghettos and million dollar housing abut, condos rise from the beaches. And these little crowded plots still have a ghost of their former beauty, even with the powder white sand turned dingy the Atlantic still sends blue-green swells to break on the shore.

And the cheapest gas is still an unaccustomed expense required for traveling along that God-forsaken 6 lane stretch of South Dixie Highway or U.S. 1 where in the early morning hours the cops wait least you are tempted to drive faster then 45 by the long empty strips of blacktop. But there was the hundredth replaying of the By the Way album and the windows open to the humid night air, watching flashing blue and red to warn me: avoid that temptation.

But then I’m still screwed. In my tire actually.

Fuck.