On this cool, clear summer night I felt blessed to be alive.

The slave girl snuggly tucked away in the ostentatious den at my back, I emerged with Yo-Hammer, the presumptuous pimp cane, in hand to see the sliver of a moon just above the house tops to the west, its bottom shining from the light of the sunken sun that cast a washed-out tone upward in that quarter of the sky.

Where were the thugs, pit bulls, hoodrats, motorists, drunks, sissies, dindus and faɡɡots?

Of all the degenerate broods of this souring suburb, none appeared to afflict me with their persistent inferiority.

As I emerged from the darkened corridors of row homes next to the churchyard where, as a boy of six, I was first granted a taste of the true would order at the hands of three 7-year-olds, I looked up into the sky to see an image out of one of the book covers I read as a disillusioned youth. Before the dull outline of the blued moon, above its brightly lit bottom flew a plane, seeming to crawl at this distance, its lights coning out before it. The scene reminded me of a painting by Joseph.

On the other side of the wide boulevard I walked all alone beneath a seductive sky, wondering if perhaps I’ve judged this world too harshly from my cynical, toadstool throne. This lead me to begin pondering a brief on the roots of globalism.

The hip was working efficiently and the steps echoed an even serenade for the thoughts ruminating in this curious ape.

The world was taking a more certain shape in the mind as I heard the crinkling crunch under me light, left boot. As I looked down and stepped off, I saw that I had stepped on a cluster of four to five syringes with my left foot. Under my right foot is a shattered smart phone, the lithium battery flattened by a car tire.

As I walked on, I was reminded that for every man who seeks understanding many seek oblivion.