Field Report

by Robert Burkenhare

There was this woman got rid of her kid the old-fashioned way. Too gruesome to go into. Suffice to say, she had no choice because there was none provided because these other people decided she should have no choice. But there’s always a choice. She cut out the middle-man. If you know what I mean.

There’s the man in the apartment above mine who masturbates all day. Sometimes with his out-of-tune guitar. Fucker thinks he’s Jimmy Page. 

There’s this fucker Jimmy Page who stole and sued and fucked a young girl and bought a castle owned by a dead mad fucker. 

There can be seen from the top of the not-quite tallest building in Chicago this collection of lights the kind that’ll rival anywhere but then when you move just this way a bit you see the empty black where there was a lake just two hours ago. In there is where all the time goes. 

There was a time when a cup of coffee was simpler. Now is the time when people complain about the complications a cup of coffee has undergone. And the padded expense. But we still use “the price of a cup of coffee” as metaphor. Those of us old enough to remember a time before latte. Old fuckers.

There’s this fucker to my left who didn’t brush his teeth. And a man on this train looking to steal someone’s smartphone. Can’t decide who’s worse.

There is no shortage of fucks to give when you’re young. The old have no fucks. Or few. Fewer now than once. Yet the young don’t give a figurative fuck. I didn’t. Wish I did. Waste of breath advising otherwise. Fucking kids.

There is time enough at last like in The Twilight Zone episode where the guy from Rocky breaks his glasses on accident after the very un-accidental destruction of the world. Irony, they call it, unless I’m misunderstanding. I was old enough to not fear we’d blow ourselves up (we maniacs) like in the monkey movie or The Twilight Zone or The Day After. But I always knew it was possible. And is again. What’s old is new. 

There fuck fucking fuckers old and young. They fuck and make more fuckers. The young ones, not the old. Those old fuckers fuck thanks to blue pills and reap only disease. Not much different than what the young fuckers create.

There are those who celebrate life. Those who end it. Those who do everything they can to forget it. To ignore the worst of it. Accentuate the positive. And nothing wrong with that. But these happy fuckers tell the others to lighten up. Do they ever think beyond their parochial borders? 

There are cranky fuckers who dwell on the negative. They’ve got their work cut out for them.

There are all these people talking about free speech. “Debating,” but “debate” implies intelligent discussion. There’s an unintelligent discussion about free speech being held on devices. Soulless, smell-less screens. Speech, smell, sound, see, taste, touch. There are five senses given to us and maybe three stimulated in this soulless, unintelligent discussion. Two, really, but three if you count the touch of fingers to keys. Four if you lick the screen. Five if you light incense while online. Which I recommend. All five senses. There are five.

There’s this guy who used his free speech to say nothing at all. And this woman. And another guy. And another woman. Three more over there. Look at them.

There are the fuckers and the fucked. But let’s not get too political. 

There are days you’ll never back. Food that will never be this good. Tobacco and marijuana and alcohol. Cocaine. Delicious. 

There’s the feeling of falling. Wakes you up when you dream.