Dancing in Peanut Butter (revised)

 The air smells like gasoline, his thoughts burning from the buzz. He’s on-the-nod, broken from all the dead end jobs. Humanity becomes quietly tolerable. He finds a park bench to sink into, slouching toward another false freedom only he understands. Clouds fade to black, his eye lids convert to an anchor on his soul. He’s almost there, he almost cares, rain drops fall on lice eggs in a weave of unwashed hair. Longing to leave, with nowhere to go but his fractured dreams.The medicine guides his travels, he fist-bumps the reaper on his descent. The path is quite grim, more resembling of a tattered trail. He charges through the shadowed flames molded just for him. Thereupon, he makes a perfunctory attempt to claw through the horseshoe-shaped trail paved with needles and spoons, for he’s not yet done living his life of ruin. Sounds of life surround him while he’s visiting relatives and unforgotten friends in a barren-state of fear and self-loathing. He hears cars passing on wet pavement, soaked with the faith of all the nameless assholes that run this childish place. His shirt immersed with acid-rain, suctioned to his withering torso, when the cold from it abruptly wakens him from his tormented reality. He musters the strength to rise from his seat, he’s on his feet, wreaking from the heat. The rain softens…his shirt feels like kevlar. Clouds part ways and allow the sun to inch its’ way back to a fallacious security blanket for the masses. He smirks while he walks through the guilt-shaded afterglow on crippled bare feet. Another half-ass product of society, begging to be left alone, desperate for a body pillow and a home. He fights for a breath, inhaling insecurity, exhaling junk. The rain subsides, he staggers backward following his shadow, whistling lullabies to the sweet-spurious sound of the proverbial hour glass, while the ominous monkey on his back maliciously throws fecal matter at passerby’s.

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