debauchery

A mid Winter warm sun agonized behind the hills
When Rupert called in ecstasy
An orgy dome! —He could barely breathe
An orgy dome!

Substance abuse, online gambling, petty theft
That was Rupert all along
Only that mid Winter afternoon
When sun was fading fast
As I cried alone at a Wal Mart parking lot
He was more than that

The Uber of porn
The Amazon of sex
The Google of fetishes
The Yahoo! of unsatisfactory intercourse

That was Rupert, too

He got certified for medical marijuana in Arizona
Made a buck or two selling what he was not smoking
Rupert was also selling home made nudes as Art
With a capital A

Rupert spoke in a soft calm voice when he was not intoxicated
Rupert just embodied the alienation of ageing Pre Millenials

I was going crazy by myself
Caged inside that crippled 1993 Buick
And all I could think about was the 3.4 million people employed as cashiers in America
An orgy dome! —He insisted in delight

And then I could see it: An orgy of 3.4 million cashiers, under a yellow brick dome
In low, low light, in ghastly sweaty darkness

Rupert was the Netflix of panhandlers
The Mapquest of lost souls

It was getting late
I was getting tired
While he explained his very own holy trinity: Overstock, Overprice, Overkill

Pity Rupert. Pity the debauchery. Pity the state of decay of the great American People.

Don't pity orgies, though.



julian bailey (Tucson, AZ, 1977)