Southwest Florida

Houses stand enumerated, going on forever. Low to the ground, very few with a second story. Plenty of vacant plots for condos, retirement homes, family homes, which roam the foreground, giving way to a steady impulse of chaos which will never come to an avail in the company of unidiosyncratic dictums sang by planners with a bourgeois imaginations stained on paperwork and ubermach tendencies gone astray on country music radio stations, serving an unapologetic patriotism that lacks carbon dioxide and critical thinking focusing on something too taciturn and bold to even become aware how sublime the sun looks at dusk; futilely feeding a dead fetus from lost paramedic tubes that navigate social putrefy somewhere a few blocks away from the downtown praxis while the near by city hall workers wonder where’s George Jetson and what time re-runs of Survivor are on in order to take their minds off of the flagitious property dealings that put an end to union workers who mingled further into the commercial area out of necessity did not add to the congestion of sweat and exhaust fumes where a shopping center, always including a super-market (non-union), a Chinese buffet, Blockbuster, Subway (transportation notwithstanding), and cardboard tasting pizza chain, is found at every intersection or patch of parkway not built up by offices or a condominium complex that will rip out any quirky lineage that either went straight back through the Latin American, the Midwest or all areas of New York State that then went back to all over Europe, even Hong Kong and Seoul, and in some fascinating cases, back to America itself but went back involuntary to Africa, adding to this dissolving and invigorating archetype that formed a nucleus around the various aesthetic expressionist tasks to raise questions of the evaporating Bill of Right’s function led to a shifting agenda of Mars missions to which it scuppered upon all ethical and fiscal concerns but the optically challenged of South West Florida loved the ideas, nostalolgic for the glory of Apollo 13. Yet, as of now foundations to build more and more homes upon a sound economic praxis that would make Prometheus proud follows each citizen around, in their boats or immaculate existences or welfare duplex as the seven o’clock summer sun starts to set in on sweaty necks and misapproited Christian egos—the reason epiphanies are never naked and never lucid but guttered along Mary’s abortion to raise cashflow for the few churches currently being built in the cape on promises of secret golden rectangles and mountains of cocaine every time a big shot who has a brand new pick-up truck, with big tires and standing five feet off the ground, and a crew of migrant workers, who already has built plenty of homes in the area, looks across the field and sees the potential for ominous civilization and bulldozed mango trees barreling over transgressive amounts of compradors in lavender never appealing to a construction worker in Brooklyn coming home drunk who just lost his job for copious opportunities for more profit in underdeveloped countries under despotic leadership that waves the Haliburton flag directed from a teleprompter that allocates a limited amount of minutes for the Jacksonville Panthers can roast their upcoming wining season across the state because in a state so big there are numerous cities with teams and bloody hands that will soon, one day, give birth to a Harlem Renaissance of sorts where jokes will understood by senior citizens who don’t currently get them apart from the old rehashed Bob Hope routine that young comedian Rocco Jesse baptizes every Thursday night at the bingo center on the corner of Santa Loco and Gleason, a monotonous strip that does not move between 4:30 and 6:00 PM on weekdays, although it did once when the road’s users watched a four hundred pound Dominican man, wacked out on angel dust get the shit kicked of him by shopping center security guards that would buy Natural Ice at the Circle K before going on their shift under sketchy circumstances perforated by the mayor’s uncanny fascination with invisible 19th century Japanese poetry propelling no profundity except ‘hello’ to the dying birds that land in the canal in the back of his house that is the symbol of beatification in the real estate brochures that alleviate perception through right-wing organizations masquerading as promoters and keepers of paradise—hence forth—telling children they can’t be called mudbone despite the canopy workers who have similar names like termite, vomit, muddust, and creepy features, all names self-crafted by unnoticed counter-culture of carnies who fly out of cannons all around the state, sucking up fresh citrus on Sunday mornings after dodging evil evangelists, who if you ask me, have too much say in the public schools, contrasting their real pejorative stance that children, when they grow up, follow the mantra of “honey, I’m numb as fuck, you need idols and things” that is piped into the entrance of every supermarket making the James P. Lumberton, asks, “Why can’t I just buy beer, feed my kids, and go home?”—a gaudy question according the Kindness Board at the Delray Academy Elementary School that is directly across from the Rube Jack Ray Estates, a private community, who fund the school who wonder why their kids carry knives into classroom and cannot fathom their own banal family failures spread across triplicate late-model SUVs and sedans, fighting back sightless wet rain that kill the orchids.