What a paradise this is. I lie here in total comfort. She is next to me in deep slumber. Looking at her, in the night, with a streetlight coming through sheer curtains, I feel this is too good for me. Where is the struggle? It is nowhere. Certainly not in this apartment, in this neighborhood, this ward. No. This is easy street. A place where every hard-working urban dweller dreams of being. And I’m here for free. My sins have not been paid for. In fact, I am paid for committing sin; the sin of sloth, gluttony, fornication and so on, etcetera ad nauseum.
But I am paying for these sins. No work has been done. Not a word written down. Just delicious ham sandwiches, beautiful music, a strong cash flow and constant fucking. And, I am miserable.
This is playing it safe. This is hiding out in America. I don’t belong here, and if the powers that be found out, I would surely be tossed to the streets to live out my days.
They’re waiting for me. These police of capitalism. Waiting for me to muck it up. They hate people like myself. Those of us who have left everything for chance, a roll of dice, cards played, the ball on the roulette wheel landing on my number. No. They will not stand for any of us taking the easy way. America is hard work. Labor intense. Or complete boredom. Standing on an assembly line riveting tiny screws to cars, you’ll never own. Perhaps baking bread. Yes, our daily bread. Made by machines filled by humans who wait patiently for the clock to ring. The heavy lifting, sore backs, and broken old men with nothing to show but a few bucks given to them from their own hands. No rewards. Only a percentage of what you’ve paid into the system. A system constantly clogged with shit by the rich and powerful. For Christ’s sakes, grab a plunger. It’s all backing up now and never ever to be flushed away. The smell of money. Thrown at us in small chunks. Bite-size pieces. Hard to digest. Yet it is swallowed whole. And every two weeks, we come back for more. Pigs waiting for ears of corn.
And do I feel guilty for not participating? No. I lie here next to Cleo, my patron Saint of the Arts. The hour is three in the morning. I can not write. The comfort is too great. My spirit is broken.
