Jul 6, 2008
I've had more conversations about the i-phone in recent weeks than I have about anything remotely concerning artistic or spiritual gain. I have seen more people complain about their surroundings than I have people enjoying their collective experience. I have seen more people conclude than listen. I'm finished listening to you all: friends, enemies, animals, sportscasters, anchorwomen, bartenders, well-wishers, and etc. I'm seriously through for awhile.
Remember me as an armed peacemaker, a founder with no foundation, a wanderer with a home. Remember me as a proud man with no actualization, a mini-mart without loose cigarettes, a vacation at its tail end.
They're closing down the small stores to open the large chains. They're blending the cotton shirts with the linen suits. They're adding fuel. They, they, they.
Maddening are the calls for the heads of the American young to progress. Maddening are the election blurbs, calling cards and dealership loan letters addressed to occupants country-wide.
I've not been around. I've no interest in your daughters, your fortune, your traveling whimsy in your old age. I've not a care in the world as long as their are none for sale. I've not to the time for them.
Marathons of shells are cascading over the rooftops of the cities and no one can afford to count them-- not even while trying to sleep. Not even while redesigning bathrooms, stacking cookware or twisting the frames back into bifocals.
Listen, mothers, their will be no revolution. Not in Montreal, Minneapolis or Mexico City. Not in New Haven, North Mecklin County or Nuremberg. Unclasp your hands and center your palms on the tables to prepare for the boredom of retirement. The reclamation of American never happened and will not, so carry one, carry all, carry on.
Makeshift millionaires have been created in trust and triumph and the bellicose are no longer in tow. All of the card-carrying bullshit artists are rewarded in time. Prostitutes are long-forgotten despite clenched eyes, balled fists and long-needed release. The power brokers are undaunted and unbroken while lashing their creative juices across their backs.
In the morning, I will need a shower and a shot of whiskey to keep my bedraggled nerves from striking out at my fragile countenance.
Oh, oh oh. Wait.
I almost forgot to ask you why I loved you like I love the moment the oscillating fan hits me in muggy weather, why I sometimes think the most bored times are those we are avoiding the importance of our brilliance, why we can and and cannot and why we muster the strength to deny ourselves a sense of importance when we are most certainly most deserving.
What might have conglomerated in pools of methodology-- collections of collections-- make the heaviness of humidity hang over muscles mired with the weight of inflexible attitudes.
I have driven off without keys having mutated the mire, marked the monstrosities, molested minutiae and mastered metered minutes.
Still, though, I know not the objective correlative.
I cannot remember the metaphors I meant to place here: perhaps a running horse or a tired owl, a running brook dallying around a set of sun-baked rock, a contemplative set of furniture or a jet-stream warming a set of holiday carolers.
In any event those metaphors would do nothing. Drive them out. Pay attention, pay attention to me, here. Pay me attention. Pay attention, whistle in tune, avoid your condemnations, make sure nothing happens. Pay attention me.
No wind is rustling most days and the idea of sanity is so sweet and so kind and it might bring you an iced drink, decaffeinated, or it may lay it's hands over you sweetly after plucking a guitar and love you for awhile before cooling it's hands in the water next door-- leaving you to contend for yourself. You will be left to stretch toward goals untended.
You will put yourself in your grave with a knotted throat, withered hands and a sense of gratuity unfounded in the drizzling rain the world alloted for your unattended funeral.
After all, dying.