Over the tawny white-frost of outlying St. Louis scrub-land. . . . . “the status-quo” never really changes. Behind each dashboard, the fevered hell of men’s brains or “never a second thought” as transient and mortal as the traffic, itself.
For life is appetite– thirsting between pit-stops in the far vaster law of averages.
There is a certain “price-floor” as flat and well-tried as the pavement itself, resting solidly beneath your rolling wheels. Call it market forces or highway department budgets or “the rules of the road”, or a fella huddled up against a stiff breeze in a Rams jacket “looking for something to stick his dick in”.
You’ll find religious-madness hurtling down the highway, gulping like a geriatric guppy. Or literal-minded National Rifle Association fantasy, righteously well-meaning– yet beset by the modern whirlwind of liberal legal madness.
(– Ski-masked car-jacker’s and pedophiles waving with outstretched fingers outside your window before smashing inside with a crowbar)
Constancy, thy name is “motor-breath”. And a plasticized stench that reams out your nostrils, throwing a box of tools in the trunk and pumping the accelerator with a grimy shoe.
You can neither expect poets, geniuses, or saints– much less “super-heroes”.
And what the fast-food and six-pack lifestyle does for our pasty, bodily form. . . . . as the hard feld-spar shines iridescent with oil– litter fills the culverts beneath overpasses– and the leaden sky roars with passing traffic.
For why would it be any different?
The downtown sky-line rises. . . . . and you’ll hear the constant, measured voice of News-Talk 1120 KMOX.
Like a reporter’s trench-coat flapping in the frosty presumption of greater metropolitan-area drama– busy jobs and busy people.
The wide draw of Cardinals baseball and local Scott Trade market, office parks and family men and the standard belief in free trade as fighter jets fly overhead– as steady as orthodoxy and yawp’ing vigor.
Or even a KMOX weather-report with precipitation accumulating out-of-sight, out-of-mind and as steady as the droning run-down– how it brings its own assurance.
It’s lapsed Catholicism and Viking revelry with classic rock and bad fun, soaked in alcohol. Van Halen music and charity golf tournaments and “Hooters Bar & Grill”, tanned thighs in orange jump-shorts and umbrellas you put in your drinks like spring break.
And the schmucks losing it all down at the casinos in a flurry of ripped, littered tickets and the law of the world. Just another regular. . . . .
DAMN YOU, RAMS.