Playing in Peoria

On a dreamless night, I listen fearfully to the wind swirling outside my window. In the early hours I hear black whispers in the white noise coming from the heart and soul, telling me that more is known that is untrue about the truth that is known than will ever be told. Angrily, I turn on the light to investigate, but I find nothing. Calmed by the soothing silence, I roll over and close my eyes, returning to the darkness. The opiate puts me to sleep, allowing me to quietly resume my journey across this land where:

Sounds of violence and pictures of lies
are plastered on billboards
to deceive travelers on the narrow road
which passes by the prisons
and the pesticide refineries;
while
in the dying remnants of a broken downtown,
darkened bars line glass covered streets
where wheelchair veterans share vials of vicodin flavored ambien,
washing them down with plastic jugs of back alley gin
to obliterate throbbing memories
of bloodstained knives dripping in the hands of young children;
as
teenage girls giggle in cornfields,
smoking tough, huffing and puffing,
listening to Charles Manson songs on I-pods
provided by magazine mothers who rant against the arrogance of obesity,
their eyes darting and shifting,
seeking the opportunities of secrecy;
while
in the city park, under the ancient oak trees,
a teacher films a physician explaining to her nieces and nephews
why it is
that niggers love Cadillacs;
as
rich men, standing next to statues of Abraham Lincoln,
scream messages into megaphones
and hand out small arms to small people
who are on the lookout
for the Nazi who went to Russia
to develop the audacity
to put on the mask of a 13th century Imam with eyes of blackened glass;
while
at city hall,
deliberate chaos is planned
to obfuscate the bleakness at the cattle factory
by running a parade through the Catholic cemetery and the slaughterhouse
on Memorial Day after a barbecue in the park;
as
Two Dog Dave and Sweet Virginia walk the early morning streets
when the hungry and restless are itching about,
picking out slightly used cigarettes from damp ashtrays
outside the government office buildings
where they will later pick up their food stamps and social security checks.

Upon awakening, the series of dreams is pitched into the void of my unapproachable consciousness. I prepare for the competition by washing thoroughly and applying invisible makeup to features that must never be seen. Paxil is polished off with a protein shake and untraceable steroids. Inevitable costume changes are loaded in the trunk to insure ready availability in case of identity theft or failure. The stage is set for my performance. I walk out with the confidence of a drunken sleepwalker.