Spring is in the air

Here comes Spring. Neighborhood brushfires airmail plastic offerings to the dead. No longer forced to exist here, they stare down at us in disbelief, relief and pity. Survivors refuse to believe they're there. Faith in an afterlife is too unproductive a form of irrationality. Better to barrel down sidewalks watching foreigners feign surprise and anger, hopping like snails from restaurant water tanks. Everybody's hungry, but nobody volunteers to be lunch. Earplugs take the edge off, imprisoning the voices inside: students clamoring for culture, any kind will do. Spring blows. Eyes water. We wake up sneezing; nothing else to do. Bootleg dvds drench us in hollywood lit. Old series from our early days play soccer with our memories. Maybe things were better than we thought back then. Dumbass western ways ain't so shitty after all. At least we knew the difference between the content and the commercials. Product placement was less scientific. We watched movies about the East and figured we knew what was what. There's nothing inscrutable about environmental abuse. It's as simple as getting your sister drunk and pumping her for the fun of it. Remember when English made sense? Now plastic grows on trees like money.