Google is whenever I do reality Gonzo style. I should’ve patented the system right from birth. Now I’m the idle-class equivalent of a pauper. Shabby gentility. Land poor and word rich. At least I don’t believe in the Federal Reserve Board. I forgot about my role model Delmore Schwartz.

My kingdom for a hotel where the fear can easily reach me through the walls. It can get me my room service too. Here the food comes by accident in between the bars. I think some old Mafioso is speaking to me, by accent: I forgot about Triste. Che strano, perche non sono allegro.

My Oscar picks keep losing. Next year I’ll use the secret weapon, an elephant drunk on palm wine that sees through space and time and the heat. I enjoy the names which overlap. I can go from being 12 years a serf here to a great escape artist with or without a motorcycle doing my own stunts.

I can wonder then. Am I the one driving the motorcycle or am I the one being driven by the rider on top? Depends who’s better looking, the machine or the man. Freedom belongs to the really ridiculously good-looking. The rest of us deal with the mild authoritarianism and subtle feudalism of genes.

 

BEN NARDOLILLI currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, Inwood Indiana, Pear Noir, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish a novel.