I am a communist. It begins with Colder Nights’ September Creeping across the screen not unlike the way the ground got confused when you had had a few, who was that with the camera it was always a camera somehere because it was a camera. Old men stand incredulous, this stuff with cameras seems like work. My own camera is as big as a match box. Click. Next. Photographers shrug. So do editors everywhere. I am too busy to care. You have to be there for moments to break free from their own confines and the idea that you can own another idea seems to stand on dubious, unequal grounds. 

There is a hierarchy. Always male. Usually fat and white. Bald. Wears Ray Bans. Always looks the other way. We cannot do that those party days are overdue for those of us watching you because we know what to watch for and no one can trust any of you kids one foot. You could see the lights from the little Arizona desert towns all below the blue and stretched out like the universe itself of seas in seas in black. Black is all the colors. White is the absence of color. Photons do not care much about history while 3 billion of them pass through you every second. He was a summer job to me. Cars and trucks parked in fields just off the carnival. They had a titty bar (it was a tent of hookers), and there was no other titty bar and men would just stare at that empty shiny pole. The world was cruel and no one understood but other guys like you.

You had to pay upfront to play pole dance your pussy over here. It’s about the money, honey.  

“I gave up cigarettes. Don’t do that to me.”

“I taught you how to steal cars, Tim.”

That was a long time ago. I was fourteen. I was being watched by every authority institution of We Are Going To Fuck You In The Mouth. What are we, in the sixth grade. 

“I know I owe you. I need mescaline. Can I buy some from you.”

“Tim, there’s a gun in your mouth because we are not negotiating.”

Fuck. “I want your fat cock in my mouth again.”

At the top of the Ferris Wheel his balls had tasted like Arabian horses driven by December and your smells of galloping. There is no such thing as We Are Not Negotiating. Often, that is all we do. The buttons had lifted me up into this place of lights and a parking lot and if you dared to look around from that pinprick at the slow motion planet below, there it was, just waiting for you like a copperhead was an exhausting world of sorrow. There were a lot of cars to steal, and I got to work. Work remembering Arabian horses running wild at nights in crumbling fields of frozen ground where once the Carnival was almost done.