"The Sky’s Been Hitting the pipe Too Hard and now it's Raining Cancer"
"The Sky’s Been Hitting the pipe Too Hard and now it's Raining Cancer"
By Felonious Academic
There’s a sickness in the Florida sky, a lattice of slow poison drifting down like angel dandruff from the bellies of airliners. You can’t tell the difference between a sunrise and a minor chemical burn anymore — the horizon is a bruised peach, and the clouds look like the smeared fingerprints of a cosmic hitman.
The old-heads around the way say they’ve been spraying us since Clinton, back when we thought the worst thing a president could do was lie about a cigar. But this is something else, not just harmless vapor. No, this is deliberate sky-surgery, a slow amputation of the atmosphere, one milky slash at a time. You breathe it in, and it rearranges you. Manipultes your genetic make up.
Weve shrugged and say “They’ve been killing us since birth, Pour another drink.” some have considered loading a .44, and try to shoot the damn clouds down. I just sit here on the porch, sweating through my last cleannshirt, watching the planes crisscross the morning like drunken priests drawing pentagrams on God’s living room floor.
It’s always Florida where reality breaks first. The rest of the country thinks it’s just our party habits and hurricane paranoia, but I know better, oh i know better. You can see it in the Everywhere, the gators move slower, their eyes glassy. You can see it in the old retirees, coughing into their bingo cards. You can feel it in your goddamn teeth man.
And the weird thing is… after a while, you start to love it. You start to crave the syrupy stillness that comes after a full day of cloudseeding, when the light is filtered through ten layers of atmospheric fluff, and your thoughts begin to feel like they’re being poured out of a pitcher of beer. There’s a surprising calm to the end of the world, the way you can smell the fish decaying in redtide rotting in the heat while the sky above them become more chem then vapor. until all our ideas taste faintly of aluminum and antifreeze.
If they stopped, the raw sunlight might burn us alive. We’ve been acclimated to the filter, the fake, the medicated air.
Wait...The planes are coming again. Ain't that a bitch. I can hear them before I see them lately, low and deliberate, carving another grid in the wet sky. Somewhere up there, a man in aviator glasses is dumping another cocktail of aerosolized onto my roof. And to tha, I raise my glass to him.
Spray it all, brother. Let it rain silver and madness. The Florida sun is too honest without you.
