Neon Dust

I’ve finished my wine and I’m standing at Sol’s tiny window, gazing out over the acres of steaming concrete. Below in the streets the sleek lifey mummies are marching, skipping to the money rhythm, clutching their newspapers, laughing, spitting blood. The neon dust falls slowly, filtering through the stone canyons, settling on hats and fire hydrants, collecting on delicatessen awnings, filling the shopping carts and rickety baby carriages of the ragpickers with soft powdery snow. Everywhere the glowing neon dust penetrates and permeates like music. It glitters like frosting on the lampposts, it glimmers like gold leaf on the lips and eyelids of the untouchables who sleep in the gutter. You can’t escape it, this beautiful neon dust. You feel it between your fingers, you suck it into your lungs. You find it in your pockets, on your toothbrush, in your navel, between your toes. The trees are bleeding, the sky is bleeding—still the music flows on. All night long the neon dust is falling, on the parked cars, on the garbage cans, on the graves of the unborn children, this soft powdery snow that transforms the twisted freaks sleeping in doorways into pretzels with sugared legs. All night long, everyone is tossing and turning. “Precision” is the word on everyone’s lips. Precision orgasms, precision ecstasies. Everyone tossing and turning. Everyone is dreaming about beautiful Humpty-Dumpty, the World Egg. The shell of the World Egg is cracking. Beautiful Humpty-Dumpty, it’s too bad. The crack is getting wider. The albumen is leaking out the windows...