[no internet access lately, but visual culture continues unfettered. I know you like Situationist revisionism, so here's an account of my suburban derive.-ed.]
Plied by white wine, drained on an immaculate porch, Mary and I decide to navigate the cul-de-sacs of Steinmeier farms by bike. Huffy Howlers, wayward night owls, whizzing around, simulating exercise. Skidding into piles of gravel at the end of hills.
A cruise is normal in these parts, except when it's in the dark.
Creeps can see into kids' windows and the ambiance is amplified by moribund newspaper details-- grim cliches, obscene-- of an axe murder on Christmas morning in one of these trim yards, a teen going postal on his parents.
It could push you off your course, like bad vibes always might,
make you that much more blind.
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