SUBURBIA PURGATORIA (EXCERPT)

Sight of water running alongside the sidewalk parallel in the underbelly of the city center, now Sid was staring at what had brought him here to the water, events of the past, it was his recurring make believe sold over and handed to some slave he would be. Scenario plays over and over always seeming incomplete looking over short wooden wharf and the small craft with a thatched cabin roof. He saw ancient junk tattered, boats huddled in an elaborate jigsaw pattern. He turned, buildings staring blankly over his shoulder as if holding each other up. Peeling paint, windows obscured, rash, cardboard, doors open, it shocked him, gleaming steel, broken glass, urban from within the inside out, old souls, old tales, repository of dreams, erotic fantasy and obsession all fitting together like the people too who rushed and brushed along narrow cobblestone lanes.

"You live in and above and all around your bleak brick mountains. You make your own dismal gray haze, you huddle together, hurried and hallucinating through the natural world!", an old bum rants to no one in particular. Sid replies in the fading evening, "Hey, yeah, I understand." "Then keep your eyes closed on your ancestors and bite hard.". Sid grits his teeth.

Winding through the mad city met their fates amongst urban decay- Sid stumbles into squalid downtown and its noisome stereo sound, finding himself in a land of commands. Left lane must turn left. Right lane ends. No through traffic. One way. No loitering. No breathing. Gaudy storefronts, neon against chrome, vast stretch of misery appearing before him as far as the eye can see.

This city is becoming asleep, a living breathing dreaming snoring machine -the bus careens down Fifth, Sid in the belly of the metal beast, from his window gazing at the sleepwalkers roaming from one gray dream to the next. This city is becoming stagnant, a living breathing pissing shitting machine -the bus turns on Oak, Sid hits his flask and tucks it back in his black suede coat.

This city -we are all alike here in this void ,if only in some ways, some sort of common bond, a running theme. We all know each other here. We envelop nothing like dogs in heat lapping up sex like water, we sit languid like junkies waiting for the connection, like a hypodermic needle pushing heroin into the vein.

A cup of coffee on an empty table black as hell, the steam rises up and blends with the stale haze of cigarette smoke circulating about the room in the essence of the mood, flickering candlelight highlights the ominous silence of lonesome walls and downtrodden faces, a dull roar emanates from the ceiling fan setting forth a tone of trance like tranquility. Sid sits rigidly at the end of the table lost in thought smoking away on hand rolled cigarettes. He loves his nicotine, he is a fool for caffeine, too much coffee poured down the old throat fraying already frayed nerves. Frantic mental roaming and schizophrenic dreamscapes are a common state of mind for Sid. He runs his hand over his shaved purple hair, if he had any hair he would probably rip it all out, his eyebrows were already sparse from nervous plucking and anxiety attacks. You could say he nurtured quite a few stares when he did venture out, purple topped bald faced figure in his smooth maroon leisure suit nearly jogging with his urgent pace going to nowhere really, just out, away from anything. But the disturbing image that would send aches to your heart -the eyes- mirrors to the soul, you could look into those blue things and see the emotion of ten people, you ask 'what's wrong?', he'd reply "Don't know." and unlike most people he wouldn't be lying, and often times, that would be what would get to him the most, that he simply didn't know, what he called the suburban brat syndrome. You would not walk away from Sid Dresch without some sort of distinct impression

His mind is swirling high above him, he takes a drag off of his smoke and glances across the room, Anesthesia is crouched contently on the floor, her glazed eyes peeking out from behind her black spider webbed hair in curious amazement as she pours dish washing liquid over an immense tower of cigarette packs forming patterns with the thick ooze, smiling, pleasantly amused with herself. Sid exhales a cloud of smoke and speaks

"I think I'm going to explode."
Anesthesia mutters back without bothering to look up. "
There is more essence to imploding.
" "I am going to explode." He insists.
"Exploding is overdone."
"Any form of self destruction is definitely overdone but the lure is still there. She finally looks up to make eye contact.
"Yes ,but if you must self destruct at least have an air of originality to it."
"I think I'm going to explode.'
"Like a time bomb in the soul?"
"No, more like a plummeting egg."
"An egg?" Her interest is piqued.
''A soul shattering like an egg.
"Self destruction is like a suburb."
"No, a suburb is waiting to die. A shattering egg is self destruction."
"Humpty Dumpty had a great fall."
"I'm going to explode."
"Don't change the subject."

Sid picks himself up as if he would vomit if he moved too quickly, slinking across the dimly lit room towards the door. Anesthesia goes on with her work undisturbed by the conversation which between the two of them was quite routine.

Outside it's mid-day, the sun looms like a stagnant disease. Sid steps out, explosion waits on wings as sure as he wants it to as he walks into the street. He finishes his smoke and throws it to the ground.

(c) wayne mason

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The A Word Feature

Wayne Mason

"I'm a writer and factory worker from central Florida, when I grow up I want to be Kannon. My work has been published throughout the small press and I am the author of three chapbooks, with a fourth forthcoming from Covert Press."

Wayne is also the founder of Wordcore whose latest project is
Wordcore TV.

THE AMERICAN DREAM

Just maybe
this good life
has killed me
this thing called
the American
Daydream

Hours melt
into days
stretching into
weeks before
years until
youth is utterly
swallowed by
the wrinkled
hands of time

The years
drip away
like a candle
soaked in
gasoline

and it gets
you this

A little house
you're never at
a lawn you're
too beat to mow
A family that you never see

And in the
cracked driveway
a crappy car
that only takes
you to work
like a casket
on four wheels
only going forward
to the end

(c) wayne mason

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