No one's going to pay any attention to you if you never speak. And I'm not talking about opening your mouth. I'm talking about actual speech, communication. You know, original ideas, controversial opinions. Why would anyone want to hear you parrot shit you didn't understand or question in the first place?
Call me friend, call me team. Stab me in the back and watch me scream.
Then, tell me I'm making too much noise. Thing is, I actively try to take the road less traveled. Leads to some flat tires, U-turns, and lost hours, but it's more fun than being on tracks. The tracks are safer, don't get me wrong.
But you don't get to guide your own ship.
Talk about obligations, but remove the self-imposed ones. Reach for the top shelf, even if you might spill what's up there. I mean, otherwise, what's the point?
Seems we're burrowing into the ever-increasing real. Coming at it from different directions, but exposing it. This could almost be a rallying cry for our age:ReplyDelete
"Call me friend, call me team. Stab me in the back and watch me scream."
Not just ghosts but people. Even the ones who faded.
Recall delivering letters amid narrow ice-mist brick-shored places, breath a whorl of futile, hesitant brown dogs surly with frown marks poised to hurt.
A battalion of believers moaning surety. True balloons. Obliterated grooms. Why does your compliance make them come?
“Let Jesus in; I promise you’ll be saved.”
This place amid the human tribe is crushing, our tracheatic wheeze an outlier where birdsong usually prevails.
Policeman. Copper. Sworn to protect.
You crossed paths with her and thought it better to erase her path.
Such unmitigated hubris.
Not only the path but every step she took upon it.
You read that map, you read each step, you nightmare godforsaken failed reptilian fuck.
“I can’t even bring myself to trust a cop, so why would Jesus be my guide?”
I don’t want this to grow into a poem by default, so listen, pay attention. Reinforce this. You’re weak and low and appalling, and you always will be. Worthless, I want to say, but what we lack we boost, reshape into what we can barely tolerate.
How glorious our acts of charity, how unrehearsed. Make this our cenotaph. Our drastic tribute.
“What the fuck is a Jesus?”
No longer will I turn away from cataclysm, especially when it’s made, especially once the red-streak gaze, the blaze of shame, the razor-face of naked blame spans the climb and ropes the bleating escapee, coveting exoneration, floating jailbreak, tempting flight.
Oh baby bird.
You darling fledgling.
“Will you come back at last and hold my trembling hand?”
What untenable schemes unravel and bring you face to face with all things lacking face? What untrammeled endless waterways remain and even drain beyond this thing we deign absentia?
Claim this. Claim your phantom legacy. Let’s not let the boorish blamelords block the merited petition of the rest.
“I’ll come back. Whenever I am right, I’ll come back.”
Avenge this, all my dearest compañeros, walk in numbers shouldered by the highways as they flit and dash, reminding them of how our multitudes will trounce their flimsy hold, how sheer exuberance will rout their angry grasp, how dreamscapes wake from sleep, how such astonished love surprises overreach, how this damn good thing eclipses all of this and most of that.