Suburbia Sinfonica: Ode to Wellington, Florida

...and our twenty first century sits there, in front of the mirror, baffled at it's phony gleam.

I feel no inspiration in this horrid town. Everything is made out of plastic, and I am not very fond of that material. Palm trees have a certain gay hue of light blue or pink to them, and sprinklers rise from the depths of the green leaves of grass like nipples vomiting swamp water, like some sort of zit erecting from the earth to exhale sulphuric flatulence with the sole purpose of keeping the lawn greener. There is the worse demonic plague of police officers ever seen in humanity; it might even exceed the Key Biscayne plague in the turn of the century. In fact in just one block you are in the grave risk of getting several tickets for your mere existence, and Fun lays behind the cells of some damp dungeon for attempting to be free. For instance, Flamenco singing is absolutely prohibited, especially after two. There is nothing interesting, funny or even sexy in this forsaken town. I have resolved for not leaving my bunker. I will stay indoors to avoid the pernicious existence of my surroundings; I will apply all the immeasurable weight of my indifference to this despicable place. I do not even have money for cigarettes, so that takes all the romance away from any trace of nostalgia that might be left. Last night I realized that I have a hair stuck to my throat, a long woman’s hair; a never-ending hair, that if I pull out, it keeps extending and teasing my throat like a battalion of ants. So I have resolved for trying to swallow it, and I keep it back there and pretend it does not exist, but I know it is there, I can feel it slightly caressing my throat every time I breathe. My balls truly bother my existence these days. I have thought about cutting them off, in fact at times I feel that they have already been cut off; they have gone away without honor. This is the kind of thing that must be done blatantly. If they are going to leave me, they should leave me for good to let me rest in peace on top of my ball-less throne, but they go and then they strike back from ambush when I least expect it. They grab my entrails and shake me to dementia. Then I wonder if there could ever be a castrated bullfighter. Not that I plan to become one, but I like to think of myself as one. I like to stare at my dark ceiling at night and think I am a great bullfighter, a legend, and that instead of sitting among these cardboard walls, the burning sand lays under my thin canvas shoes and that blood and art are my everyday meal.