The psychotic thought the devil gave Jesus as he walked through the desert wasn’t a whisper in the ear. It was a gunshot that exploded like the streets. The sound of Cadillacs headed toward a destination unknown is the story of this American Life. We drift toward broken halos. They’re everywhere. Our history is littered with dreams left in pieces. It doesn’t matter if you’re from the hood or the backgrounds, and byways, the facilitation of a life dangled away like a carrot on a stick is one we’re all too used to chasing. We bleed so much, we give, we beg, borrow, and steal, but the grift remains.
Drag out the skeletons, parade them around, make the paint dance on the canvas, give us your blood, but those shekels tossed in your cap, grab a dollar menu burger on me, buddy.
We dare one another to scribble our names on the lips of liars. We exorcise our past, future, and gravesite. It’s not just the people pushing ink on paper. It’s our every day. Mundane Atrocities surround us like blades in a knife fight. Our ideas' birth and death live in the work, but if our work beats like a vicious drum but slices like a guillotine, who’s head falls?
Robert Dean is a journalist, raconteur, and enlightened dumbass. His work has appeared in MIC, Austin American-Statesman, and Consequence of Sound. Back in the day, he interviewed President Obama. He lives in Austin, Texas and can name all nine members of the Wu Tang Clan.
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