Stream of consciousness: A bit
stream, if you will, aptly labeled
in a postmodern vein. Open
those floodgates and let it flow.
Neural transmitters (or endorphins,
if you prefer) streaming through these
veins, dry as blank paper.
"No endorphins here," she observes
cynically. "That stream ran dry
long ago." The experts agree:
It's a permanent drought --
we've charted it for The Almanac.
So the council voted to erect
a twelve-story flat on the dry
riverbed. If tenants are eventually
washed out by a freak endorphin flood...
Well, they should be so lucky.
"Ever swim in ecstasy, young man?"
she asked, lubricating the nozzle
of a plastic tube. "I didn't think so."
Another $375 down the drain,
chased with a very mild solution
of endorphins. Could have done that
myself, I realize. "But the rush...
Where is the rush?" Department
store hags pedaling lotions and
obnoxious scents. "Not much left, but
everything we have is two percent off."
I guess that's a rush, especially on
Christmas Eve. Any boxes? No, I didn't
think so. "You wanna box, go down
to the gym and spar a few rounds
without headgear. Now, there's a rush."
Keep your mouthpiece tight and
your chin tucked. But stay
relaxed, or you'll go down for sure.
"Mmmm..." she said. "I like that part
about going down." Yeah, that was classy.
"Now stay relaxed," she admonished.
"You've got twelve rounds to go. Blow it
tonight, and..." Endorphins streaming
through my veins, reinforcing the foundation
of a concrete high rise built on this wasteland
of forgotten intimacy. Empty vials litter
the pavement. Empty veins... Empty words
on canvas. This is a subsidized project,
you understand. I mean, it's all drug money,
you know? And the women who live here...
They're all whores. "Yeah, with lotions
and obnoxious scents." (Same situation
out east -- just a different tax base.)
"Ever swim in ecstasy?" Once, in
the eleventh round... "I didn't think so."