Hating construction: orange tape, cranes, destroying the
landscape for another phallic behemoth that profits few and costs many. Surveyors on Hole 17, Richmond Hill, aren’t
there to plant more trees, zoning. Zoning out,
succeeding at boredom, in the board room,
another PowerPoint™ meeting takes place:
“Envision this:” she starts, attempting to impress a group
of male colleagues like a well-dressed whore. “3 acres, prime real estate, stripped bare – denuded, levelled, and them… domes!” with pause for effect.
“I’m getting a massive erection!” said the president
sincerely, getting attention, “It may be an eyesore, but it’ll get more looks
being there which is better for the bottom-line.”
Buckminster Fuller’s communist/feminine geodesics fail to be
‘tried and true.’ Calm me, calm me,
commie, can’t we all just get along and share a blanket and a supreme ideology?
A problem with stock markets are that investors are
essentially glorified gamblers who desire to stack the odds in their favor, and
if, looking back at historical precedent,
it can be found that profit was proven to exist in a certain place and
modality, the importation of said modality for supposed guaranteed profit
trumps all other considerations.
At least one guy in the boardroom supports getting 3 domes
to try it out, but will not voice an opinion that dissents the established
worldview of the Russian piss enthusiast,
his boss, the one who signs the paychecks (digitally), that pays for his desirable condominium in midtown, in the heart like a fist of it all. He doesn’t love it, but
imagines someone will. He imagines some dime will be gullible enough to swipe
right on Tinder®, and then with the right lines, a few drinks, and mood
lighting, she will fail to discern his shortcomings until it is too late and
she becomes emotionally invested like the gullible chick she is and he will get
all the dome he wants. He comes to finishing touches. She puts him
in her mouth. He teaches her a thing or
two. She will learn to keep her opinions to herself. He continues to fantasize
about the size of his new place, the location, the amenities, the luxuries, his
accrued account balance, and the amount of sex he’ll be having because of it.
As of now he’s only pulling sixes and sevens, basic bitches he looks at with
disgust like his weak-willed mother.
There’s some philanthropic fellatio, but no call backs, just another
stepping-stone he thinks as he StairMaster®s the gym, staring off into space
with his Spotify® Airpod™ mix blaring crap EDM. Tedium, ‘getting his steps in,’ a modern
phrase for efficiency fiends. Modern
pedometers, Bluetooth cock-rings give a more accurate reading bouncing on the
dangle.
A spring chicken choked for a clear mind and protein, down
at the Tyson®
production facility, a concentration camp for heathen hens, Sally Sue dumps a
tray full of gibbets into the dog-food receptacle and replaces the plastic bin
back on the end of the row after chucking the last few chunks into the mass
grater, grinder, and processor. Dreaming of the big city, sick of these
backwards backwoods clowns who spit and shoot and take seconds without asking.
Many sell themselves into slavery for security, identifying
part-heartedly with an occupation
that pays some foreign energy conglomerate for their national gridiron, oil-wells,
and mining equipment. Protesters in
Chile burnt down the headquarters of “Enel Chile, a subsidiary of Italian
utility Enel…” harvesting income inequality, destabilizing by claiming rights
to resources halfway across the globe, because apparently Italia est perfecta
and has no problems at home. A father who travels for work to
escape/support his wife and kids who increasingly know luxury, but lack
guidance. Generations pass, kindred
burgeon, now concentrated in cities, fail to look one another in the eye, fail
to familiarize oneself with another, separated in spirit yet sharing common
ancestry.
Living in the moment, a Brazilian dumptruck driver dumps his
payload of plastic bagged waste into the Amazon Basin. Living in the moments to come, generations
will have to rectify, reconcile, and regenerate the damages. Do we think we can
get away with this bullshit philosophy? An atheist suicide reincarnation victim
born again against his will in more blood and less spirit (as is his Dharma)
struggles with the fact that God doesn’t care that he wanted out. A consciousness irreparably diminished to a
lower order may continue to descend at his or her own animal peril since slaughter
remains in vogue at the abattoir. What
does it mean to ‘live in the moment?’ For many it’s a McDonald’s cup or wrapper
out the car window. Bye-bye! They go back to their litter of filthy children
without a chance they thrust on society like a baby-tossing gypsy crook, bent
on profiting from a baby’s ability to evoke sympathy. I’d let that future
criminal crash and protect my wallet!
