Thursday, February 9, 2017

Rooftop

Dear Allen Ginsberg,


One cold wintery evening Sam and I kissed for the first time under the dying rays of distant supernovae, on the top of a 16 floor skyscraper, in front of the mummified remains of postmodernist architecture scattered as far as the horizon,
where we were buried knee deep in the freezing snow slowly turning into ice, looking at the almost luminous tangerine sky through which a lonely popular star or two tried to peep into our world in which the aesthetic had changed dramatically as we fucked it over, over the years,
where the building has been old enough to have been built in the superstitious era of the North American Modernism, skipping the 13th floor,
where emergency vehicles with their rhythmic melodies flew with sinusoidal frequency occasionally waking up the random sleeper, illuminating the streets with radiant reds and blues and whites on top of the pre-existing reds and yellows and greens,
where desultory birds drunkenly flew over the freezing spectacle of human night,
where resolute humans flew over the birds at the edge of the atmosphere at supersonic speeds (because to travel fast is important right?),
where we could see the average middle aged man sitting on his couch flicking through the channels on his flat screen television illuminating the vacant-night-air through the windows of his condo on the adjacent skyscraper,
where his wife and kids were probably asleep or didn’t exist or whatever,
where, in the next unit, the bottomless teenager, flicked through pornhub in a y-generational meditation,


where the cold wind that blew across us couldn’t awaken any goosebumps as we were wrapped in a cloak of incredible warmth radiating from our hearts, I think,
(or maybe we were just so drunk on the whiskey and rum we had been drinking for the past hour, I am not sure)
where the past and the present and the future collided into a singular point with the precision of a blackhole to create a moment of inimitability,
(at least for me, for I have no idea what she thinks of it anymore)
where I had spent and still keep spending multiple evenings, days, and nights waiting for a miracle to happen to clamp me out of this first-worldish boredom,
where we are all corroding in the machinery of false hope, working our asses off to feed someone already at the top of the ladder,
where those up there, oils the linkages (which happen to be us) to keep it working as smoothly as possible to make the most profit,
where even psychiatry has become a profitable business,
where to be suicidal has become the automatic norm and opium has become a better option than to go through a ‘regular’ day, whatever a regular day means nowadays,
where I lit a cigarette even though I don’t consider myself a smoker, and shared it with her, even though she definitely is not a smoker,
where we waded through the shallow end of this Samsara, seeking a drug induced narcotic enlightenment,
where we swam through our cardiovascular graveyards and toxic blood vessels,
where we dived deep into paralytic daydreams and parasitic nightmares,
where we drowned in a synthetic Nirvana, embarking on a psychedelic sleep only to awaken in this material world,


where I wrote poems and read them out so loud that only she could hear,
where she wrote songs and played them on my guitar and sang, so that only I could hear,
where she and I failed at school and work and “life” together and still had each other's backs,
where we let our days and nights decay, and turn into absurdist, surreal art, until the day she left, by which time I had already decomposed myself in the spectacle of social media transcendence,
where angelheaded hipsters burned for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, (thanks Allen)


where I found myself, alone, naked, beaten up, victimizing myself, when all around me, I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness.




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