Triumverate!

I snuffed the fag on the end of my heel, grinding the embers into not-being yanked out of the continuum. Smoke buried deep inside my lungs for later release from tar stained cilia working overtime kicking smoke back up in a movable womb of yellow mucosus. The trash can held the microphone listening ear, soundcatcher of the Triumverate(!). Presiding over the coup lies the Triumverate(!), the blossoming fart bomb of ‘63 that cut the hippies off at the pass and left us all swinging our hips to the rough sounds of Memphis grinding. The inner cities standing as shining beacons of liberty against the honkey motherfuckers too fearful to set foot on liberated ground. Smoke filled the backsky and I could smell asphalt it was the last thing I could smell lungs clogged thick with tar of a different kind.

I don’t know how I got here, standing on a street corner but I know who I am and where I am. The sun beats down hard and the papers cry out

“GOV REAGAN TO REPLACE LBJ ON TRIUMVERATE”(!)

The old man had finally up and croaked. The younger kids didn’t get it, most of them couldn’t remember the Second Republic. This was it, the Triumverate wasn’t temporary anymore, it was replacing its own. The strange alliance that dissolved the Congress, that disbanded the local police forces, that put cameras on every street corner and a microphone in every trash can. There was talk that Bush and his intel cronies were working on something new, something that would record every phone call. I didn’t believe it. It sounded too Big Brother. I bumped another toot of the grey salt and lit another fag, strolling down the hot city pavement.

The city! What city! The city! Low rise grey tenements on the outside and the crushing, empty glass towers inside squatted, controlled and off limits to the Triumverate(!) and the Filth.

The thing I can never get over tho is- why is it always summer?