2 Minutes. Go!

Scowl

I’ve seen the best minds of my generation flirting with rebellion to drown in stagnation, scrambling, screaming through urban nightmare flash, chasing feeling in a world of anesthetic whiteness,

who were born too young to dream, choking on the dregs of the greatest generation, boomed into solitude by nascent parents, gnashing teeth against the ideals of their fight,

who skipped through the flashing, neon-dusk, telling stories of monsters and missiles and things that pass out drunk in the night,

who were told to dream big, then sent to institutions that taught them to have reasonable, bite-sized dreams, dreams that can be discussed in an elevator ride, over drinks, in the “safe nature” of a suburban golf course in the morning through a haze of lite beer and politics,

who crashed cars and parties and crashed hardest after years of baiting Nancy Reagan, getting off the train, these street kids, hustling change to change into powders and pills and bags and sometimes rent money, pouring desperation into Daddy’s Volvo,

who slipped through grimy punk rock clubs, slumming forties in parking lots, waiting for the beer to warm in sun-drenched sand,

who went to wars that we pretended weren’t wars,

who fought soldiers we pretended were enemies,

who died for rich men who were in conflict with rich men half a world away,

who went to lie on foreign soil in the oil-black night while Presidents smiled with bone-white teeth,

who found love in forbidden rooms, where Jesus never stayed, turned into a weapon by the ideologically barren suits selected by foreign powers to weaken the power of the citizenry,

who stumbled into flashing hospitals dragging unresponsive friends with pinprick pupils and hooded sweatshirts covered in blood and beer and bravado.

I’ve watched the country of my forefathers tarred and feathered, redesigned for easy sale, slipped under rugs of scandal and intrigue, left to rot on the vine of a dwindling independence, soft and brown and hollow in the sun while the sow bugs squirm,

and I have watched in horror, mind wrapped around the fruits of deceit, our inheritance chopped up and branded while old folks go bankrupt trying to die, while poor folks tell their children lies that they hope will help them sleep, eyes shut tight against the glare of nuclear dawn.

2 Minutes. Go!

Sunlight

The dust motes flirt through the gaps in the curtains; the air is ripe with potential. The trout are surfacing like a promise that things will never change, even though you know they will. The fish, the sun, the smell of wildflowers on the breeze. These spring salutations are what keep us going. Be like the dust motes; they’re just dancing.

Warm on your skin, the sun is the comforting arm of a loved one. The sun is holding you up. It is revealing the whole world in golden splendor. And the sun belongs to everyone. Rich, poor, black, white, happy or sad. The sun don’t care. It’s just there.

So let’s sing a song of wonder. Point our voices toward the heavens and call the sun right down. Say, hey man, it’s cold down here. It’s lonely. We need every ally we can get. Bring on the sun.

 

Clowns

It’s time to hit the voting booth, let’s send in the clowns. They’re painted up and ready, white teeth behind fake tans and optimistic hairstyles. How many of them can you pack into this little car? How many riders can we fit on this bill? How much bullshit can I shove down the throats of the working class?

Send. In. The. Clowns.

They’re juggling half-truths and taking pie charts to the face. They’re all together and it’s one big race. There’s money to be made, motherfucker. It’s ace.

Send. In. The. Clowns.

This one’s short and this one’s fat and this one’s a woman and this one’s black.

Send. In. The. Clowns.

It’s all a ruse. It’s all a con. It’s suspension of disbelief and it’s gone all wrong, but they’re coming for you – won’t be long…

Send. In. The. Clowns.

And when it’s all said and done … when they tear the big top down … hell, you can’t complain. You bought your ticket and you got your show. We’ve got overhead. We’ve got to buy more face paint. A trillion dollars’ worth. You wouldn’t want us clowns to go away, right? That’s right.

Send. In. The. Clowns.

2 Minutes. Go!

Tell the smallest boy to go and warn the others; set up a perimeter and stay focused. Don’t let doubt run you out. Don’t let anger warp your vision. You want your eyes clear so you can see the SIGNS. Hear the whistles. Please don’t throw me into all that thistle…

When the white man barks, you throw him what he wants – don’t matter if you agree with it, you got your pick of octogenarians. Sure, if they were animals we would have shot ‘em by now, but they’re propped up with money, lies, and backroom bargains. Shit just bounces off their Teflon teeth. What, you think you got what it takes? Try it. An old man with marble teeth will stick his finger in your chest because it’s been too long since he got his ass handed to him.

Gather all the lies about you; never let the people doubt you. You are bulletproof as long as you keep on smiling, keep hedging, and keep using thirty words when you should use three. Go ahead and switch your style as you move about the country. Chameleons are hard to pin down.

Talk about how you respect women and they’ll never suspect. Talk about how you grew up learning hard lessons. Even if you didn’t. The people who actually learned hard lessons will be too tired to call you out. Make up a patriotic reason your kid died. Funnel money to the daughter you want to fuck.

What if they take their faces off?  Scalpel around the edges and the orange hair goes above the aviators and Clorox smile. The bodies are swapped and no one knows who to vote for. How much you want to bet it wouldn’t make a goddamn difference? They’ll never swap out the folks behind the curtain.

So, go ahead and get outraged. Get passionate. Get loopy. Be irrational. Vote! Pretend like you’ve got this shit on lock cause, son, the reality ain’t gonna sit so well. 

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Ready. Set. Go.

Open up the shit tap. Let. It. Flow. You might just want company, but I. Can't. Go. I've been reaping mad rewards that I. Ain't. Sow.

What's it got me? Spry dichotomies. You can step to us, but accept that there's a lot of me's.

I just saw a blackbird, bitch was crazy loud. I've got lots of friends to call, but I'm. Too. Proud. I'll sidle up beside you, but no touching allowed. By the time you get to Memphis, I'll be lost in the crowd.

And call me when you're crying, when you're dying, lying low. Curse me when you wake up and ain't got no place to go. Tell my story when I'm gone, the folks have a right to know. I'll be floating like a spider silk when the cold wind blows.

Don't you lose no sleep about it; I'll be good and gone. I'll be sitting on the devil's shoulder, singing him a song. And you won't shed a tear for me, no, you'll be strong. The days are sad and lonesome when the nights are long.

Burn a candle by the window, girl, and smile when you sing. Open up the shutters to the wonders that they bring. Tie yourself in circles like a silly, drunken string. You've made it through the winter, and it's almost time for Spring.