Corruption in the mid-west 101.

Here things are different. When I sit on my bed and face the two windows that look out over the street, I do not see sky scrapers, or into another person’s home. I see the branches of trees that were planted by hand. Each and every single one of the trees in this town were planted and planned by man. I can imagine, and often do, what it looked like before the first family settled here. One big flat canvas, where anything was possible, and the land wouldn’t throw the fuss of a mountain or river for miles and miles and miles. I also think about the innocence that this holds, this town is exactly what it intended to be. A walk to the grocery store is pleasant, old ladies sitting on their porches while their husbands mow the lawn, children riding bicycles and drawing on the sidewalks in chalk, and not things like “fuck you Jesus” but pictures of houses and kitty cats. From downtown to the outskirts of this blanket each stitch is perfect width, and perfect length. Where do we fit in? People like us. People who couldn’t see out their bedroom window beyond the curtain of whiskey bottles set upon the ledge. People who have lied, cheated, stolen, pissed on couches and churches, said “Go to hell” to police officers, and who would believe George Bush’s word over God’s. Why did we come here? Was it our last or first fuck you to “the man”? We chatted on telephones and plotted our plans of corruption, of teaching virgins and married couples how to really fuck and that it’s alright to swallow or take it in the ass once in a while. We schemed about drugs and alcohol and expanding people’s minds about indulging in the raw animalism that taunts each one of us. But I’m starting to think that this place is corrupting us and dulling down the anger that once echoed its roar so vigorously in our bellies. In the banks of the unknown we have found shells in the shade of trust and purity. He hasn’t yet, but I have jumped off a ledge and dove into another human being; A human being born and raised in this pllllaaaceee, in this heaven, this pleasentville. A naive boy I could really sink my teeth into, and yet I’ve got chunks missing from my shoulders and thighs, big mouthy chunks he took when I wasn’t looking; When I was busy talking about Seattle and that one time with the cops and this or that sack of shit. The evil here stirs me backwards, it is not Godzilla, Jaws, Jason or the “ring” that lurks, it is the masked and deceptive holier-than-thou faces of Bush, God, Nixon and Hollywood. Behind this closed door, freshly painted red to contrast the white fenced and green, green grass raises an angry fist to a horrified face of a child. Behind this closed door, belonging to a twenty something year old college student who was accepted everywhere in the nation but decided to stay here to “be close to his family” a fat line of pure cocaine is snorted off a notebook filled with thoughts of suicide. Butcher knives are too scary and butter knives wouldn’t do the trick. He’ll buy a gun – quick and easy, and he can go out with a “bang” like he always wanted. The kind of corruption that happens here is real America.