Segregation is just one branch that slavery built. Alabama is an evil place of ships they make them in Alabama and sea to shining sea. That sea is heating up. How is it a fiction that any species with any curiosity at all or an atomic molecule for a brain is big enough to care. About the history of us. How do we pay back all those missing children. The bloody history of our malevolent bones. Look your father or his photograph squarely in the eye and How Do We Repay What We Have Done. Who is we. We is our history. It is a small and cranky child at the dinner table who has had enough wine to drink, and is trying to make sense of the knife and the fork. He’s kicking the chair. He’s autistic. Stop it. Everything is now. I am writing a novel – Dirt Bike Town – where Dodge City plays the metaphor of Are You In, Or Are Out. Because Dodge sits in the middle of the country. It’s not a happy book. It’s stark. It’s rage. It’s the moon and under. Horsemen ride underneath the thunder. 

It’s science fiction. It’s dark out there. It’s too late to save the dog and pony show we call reality. The science fiction of walking on thin ice. That ice has melted. In Dirt Bike Town, reality is a sea of speed and mud. Dirt Bike Town breaks the rules of what is.

What to do with futuristic sex. Is it or is it not intimate. In Dirt Bike Town, Vegas is the capitol of the country. You cannot have both. One government over here like a double exposure. Another government over there like a double exposure times ten, too. Both of them tell different stories. I keep thinking autism is my fault. What did I do to deserve this. I see images moving through the subway tunnel. What subway tunnel what is wrong with you can’t you hear it. Stuff no one should have to witness. Bearing witness is mainly more than I can do, and I have to rivet myself to the foundation of SecretsSomething. My answer is usually let’s get out of the dragon’s way. Until I don’t feel like being careful anymore.

He left me in the desert once. He just took off. He had done this several times before, and he did come back. Could I survive. Maybe. I was unsure about everything.

Men (I never knew who they were) he claimed were after him. Were after him. I wondered if these guys who wanted to get us so badly, understood that we could count cards. We were card counters. So we would camp around for a while. We did not appear to be card counters. Do not ask me about anything wireless. I don’t know shit about cameras. The camera is the instrument of the golden Hall of Mirrors. Vegas is the gold. I am the instrument. You would be unsure about everything, too. The electric dirt bike can also be a drone. All the possibilities. It’s still about Versailles and their cake stuffed into their mouths. People try. People demand. Gender is irrelevant. You demand your right to exist.

You demand your right to autonomy. You demand justice. You have stormed the Bastille. You exist for exactly how far they can throw you. Aristocracy Justice is a dialogue that will never happen because it never has happened. It is not a prison. It is an idea. What happens when the prison’s electricity is tampered with.

From far away on a computer. In another country. The doors swing open and the bus is leaving right about now. I am my own neurological prison riding through the dirt streets of cowtown. I take my meds in the morning if I have not run out. I run out a lot. I crackles through my brain like bacon fed on steriods. In the desert, I talk with lizards.

I would argue that tourism of the slaughter house is exactly what Americans need to see. You are, Baby, what you fucking eat. Choking on the revenge of dust. I do not really care for helmets. I know my dogs. I am one. I can taste the wind. I see my friends, some people might know who they are, but they are far away. How much wood can I chop. The stream behind the house sings twelve months out of the year.