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Stealing Wings from an Angel: Excerpt Page 3
The Fourteenth of July—It wasn’t until I rested from my bike ride for a moment in the middle of a catwalk over the Squaw Peak Expressway on a 110 degree day during rush hour traffic while pouring ice cold water over my head looking down at the cars heading north traveling at the pace of a wagon train that I realized just how liberated I was even though I had sold my truck and was stuck riding my bike, taking the bus or bumming a ride off of a friend. I looked down and remembered all the hundreds of miles I drove each week cleaning windows with my hands peeling from the ammonia in my window water and the soda pop acid sweat burning the skin on my ass as I somehow managed to choke down another puff on a cigarette that was half smoke half exhaust fumes heated to 130 degrees and tasted like shit yet I lit one after another as I sat in the slowly slithering snake for over five years driving anywhere from Sun City to Mesa sucking down soda after soda that was eating a hole in my stomach and I still drove on into an all time high of 122 degrees with a second degree sunburn and a hangover squeegeeing water off of window after window for well over a hundred thousand miles of this shit before I soaked my head and actually looked at what I had been doing all those years. As I looked down at all the cars stuck in traffic, I wished I had the gall or the stupidity to just pull out my dick and piss all over them. Just piss all over the cars—the tie too tight collar too small red faced CEO with his air conditioned status machine, the wannabe gangster with the crazy trigger finger tweaking on crack in his stolen car reaching for the guts to reach for his gun and shoot his way through the crowd like any good cowboy would do, the angry father turned sideways in his seat driving with one hand and reaching into the back seat with the other to punch his kids that are being too noisy until one finally gets a nose bleed, the mortified Christian praying to God for the strength to survive the time of the Anti-Christ that seems nearer with every news cast, the exhausted secretary slipping her hand under her panty hose and rubbing her clit dreaming of fucking, the crew of illegals in the back of a pickup truck opening a beer after a long day of mowing lawns, the frustrated man swerving from lane to lane wishing he could ram the car in front of him so he could just get home and relax, the pretty woman in the convertible singing along with the radio content with her life, the trucker who somehow is driving patiently although filled with anticipation for the whore waiting for him a hundred miles from now, the drunk smoking through throat polyps navigating his jalopy with one eye, the car full of high school kids cussing and smoking and drinking and blaring the stereo to the point making the other drivers jealous of the reckless life that these kids are living—I would piss all over them if it wouldn’t put the word “dumb” into free”dumb”. Any room with three walls and sliding bars for a door is not worth living in for the act of urination that I would have to phrase during my trail as an “impromptu performance of bladder art” and therefore demand my rights under the first amendment—freedumb—just lock me up please—I would love to just piss all over them though and yell, “You fools! You fools! Look what happens when you don’t vote in a rail system! Buy a bike! Take the bus! Read a book in the fumes of a thousand armpits—a grand human smell so beautiful compared to the stink I can smell from the rectum of your gold plated Coupe de Villes. Just do something other than what you are doing now!” When the view of our society is above the freeways, one can’t help but to wonder if we are not really devolving, as some will say, from naked flesh and blood gulping carnivores lusting for another morsel of kill with a passive bushel basket of berries on the side, to armored capusled driving monivores painfully shoving greenbacks up our asses just to show the guy in the next lane what a beautiful new motor buggy can be shit out if we clench our sphincters long enough (in America, everyone can be the Czar!). The mighty black tongue writhing its way between the thighs of a mountain pass licking a path for the daily exodus of bedbugs to the promise land where the skin chips are stacked as high as mountains and the hairs grow in thick groves ready to be devoured. All this can be yours for only X amount of dollars but the exchange rate is always changing by the mere beckoning the overlord whose name is STATUS riding a dollar bill across a milky sky that shimmers like scattered change in the morning sun howling out numbers and conversions that always seem to be just a little above what is in your double breasted mite vest. So now the little mites mill and mill and mill. Mill turns to mosh and the pit forms when someone spills their coins on the pavement. The blood flows and the dead are flushed away clockwise (counter clockwise for those south of the equator or so I am told). The cadavers rise in great heaps topped by a shinny nickel and a juicy red cherry. Occasionally one eats the cherry while another gags to death on the nickel.
About Stealing Wings from an Angel
Stealing Wings is the story of my life written from 1993 to 1996 as I broke away from my less-than-ordinary upbringing in the religious cult, The Way International, and stepped into a frightening new world no longer protected by the people and ideas of the cult. The tale is not for the faint at heart as it a story of suicide, destruction, and rebirth told both factually and from the fantasies created by my imagination and dreams as I attempted to navigate this dangerous change. Purchase a copy for your collection. You won’t be let down. - Christian
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