Ruin Review 3: Atlanta

Sean Kilpatrick



People ride together by the garbage. Thrown up as neighbors, straddling kindred trash, nodding at the trough, skunk tail oxygens squall from us. We were evolved to become responsible for unparalleled stinks. Hell is about used wrappers and hell is all we have. Leftovers hatched codifying in our pants tap the stethoscope against Satan’s chest, bumping with superfluous diapers. We impose whole regions about what flubs off us. Every articulated sentience is just a funerary morose code we tickle on the earth. We think we’re too gigantic for a burial plot, but the ground is soft expressly for this purpose. That we had to turn to plumbing says enough about us. Denied fertilizers unbecoming of our shit. We’ve been puckering against futility since blankets were invented. Marching through distraction either numb, sad, or angry, pain obvious above our heads as coins in a video game. We only muster civilities to keep away police.

Anyone not smashing their head into a post sounds like a fucking motivational speaker to me. This is propaganda for having my throat slit. I’m scarcely a peer, am too old not to feel the hydraulics of my being quipped from the game. You gave your standup routine line breaks so it could be wormed onto TV like somebody’s eccentric parent. Your domesticated byline followed the entertainingly positive message deep up some stardom and now I need a fucking basket to look at you. Time to stamp cancel on my forehead, kids. I never liked any of you. Can’t piggyback the gutter. There’s nowhere to mount. Who cares what happens? Each tiny difference is a palatable excuse to do someone harm. Each American trauma is full blown kitsch. We found a way to fashion disadvantages alongside our tape-measured genitalia. Because the platform bores us. The answer’s nothing but blood and I’m a deluxe volunteer.

Snitch culture has donned its crew. Submerged as the skull will market, ninety-nine percent of sympathy means charade. Rich people trading each other their jobs over a tripped up thought exposed publically won’t answer plight. You can’t highlight the obvious to rebrand inequality like a fucking sweater. I wish to shake the hand of the PR genius who figured nothing creative sells so the English Department has to study Marx et al. Every Marxist I know finger fucks their phone or owns a Blu-ray. We converted whatever’s disclosed into cha-ching. The harder we act like we make a sellable difference in world events, the sexier the wallet. It’s all about believing in your underwear stains. Secret dookies we can’t keep.

If you see me affording my own privacy, you’ll know I finally cashed in on my flesh. I’m willing. Take me aside, fellow crackers, and explain the promotional acumen of your violin-burdened quests for unity. Then I’ll talk a mean game about how things matter. I can’t afford dentures holstered in my head for life, but where’s the dick nonetheless? Are we sure everyone’s reposted sense of justice isn’t a government plot to conduct the mid-castes busily rabid? They gave us a far-reaching bullhorn to shout down the outhouse and all we did was tattle on one another. Humanity’s not a disappointment. It’s a holocaust of a mistake that we are here. We’re like if genocide could pat itself on the shoulder. There is no escape from the obstacle they let you be. No scream will settle it. We’ve barely the malls to compensate. All consent is suicidal. It’s a generation still toppling off its high horse. Anyone’s race has been peddled to them, by sight and by culture, by forgeries of land. The kicker: same goes for your crotch, bless it and the sewer it started. Just because my skin is the color of Wall Street doesn’t mean I’m incapable of pulling it right the fuck off.

Having rubbed through my bjorn, I decided to write hardcovers presidents might grip during photo ops and toured Atlanta. Chanced into a bar between hair salons. There was an impromptu boxing ring and a gracious bartender who, no detectable sneer, I believe, sincerely offered to play me Maroon 5 to bridge the race gap. I repeated Detroit and 151 and was granted soldier status. Neato. On the streets, there seemed an influx of humble panhandlers. In Detroit, the homeless developed a sort of half-expectant shout due to certain gentrifications. It used to be: forward them your petty cash either for a story or to have allies once it happened to you. I don’t contribute anymore because it takes way longer to fathom the term “allies.” Also because someone grabbed my teen throat after I handed over a baggie of quarters. When I finally stop prolonging my residency of the streets, for sure I will administer the advantage of never having to interact again. It won’t be about survival when it happens. Stopped by a group of youths, I was very politely asked directions. I did get ready with my space as they approached. They did assume I knew anything. What an unfair contrast of stereotypes. Like I’m aware of where I’m at or have money. I wish more people assumed I was able to jump them.

I don’t want people to stop treating hatred like it just concerns the perpetrator’s general sense of superiority, because then less people would probably get shot, and America’s all about the skyrocketing margin. Everyone’s a goddamn loser in this country until the muzzle reaches your height. Please note your rot. No one online does. No clickbait bushido love. What I hate about the internet is: it brings you the outdoors. (Fucked up dog with a drippy paper.) What I love about the internet is: you’re indoors. We’re a species with such frugal numbers on our promise. I’m lucky to know a handful of folks who don’t chisel my balls with their presence. Be glad for those few in your field. I admit vast generosities occur in my favor on occasion. If two individuals reach a temporary peace, the environment must change to fuck it. You will enter another dimension if your happiness begins to last. Growing up, I learned ninety percent of outside your fort is about shut the fuck up and lower those eyes. Privilege only matters when it’s gifted upside down. The aged tend to worry. We’re mean far better than our health. Will the next generation have their asses kicked on par?

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