Saturday, March 23, 2013


We've been tricked.  Bamboozled.  Conned.  Into believing the better for them, the better for Us.  That we just haven't worked hard enough.  Don't want It as bad.  It.  The It thing.  It's gotta have It.  Swindled by snakes selling their oil with the hiss that it doesn't matter your generation in riches, in poverty, in working, in middle class.  It's the same level playground.  Our bootstraps are all just as low.  Any of the fooled can be an Idol with the right reality tv show.  The bigger they get the cheaper it is.  The cheaper the poison the better.  Poison our bodies.  Poison our minds.  Our Air.  Our Jobs.  Let them eat soda!   Only 99 cents!  Pennies in the jar.  The Newest.  Latest.  Largest!  Smallest!  Sold!  Sold on needing a $400 dollar "phone" at only $100 a month.  The phone.  Get the phone.  Need the phone.  The question answering, map making, alarm clock, egg timer, video game. The tv show,  guitar tuning, audio and video recording, still photo camera. The image touching, radio, record collection, photo album.  It's gone Viral.  Festering in my pocket.  An itch I can not help but scratch.  From screen to screen to screen.  The power generated by and for the almighty screen.  Make those pictures move.  Shiny keys to the kingdom.  A better place.  The money's always greener.  Envy sells soap.  So does Inclusion.  So does Hope.  Soap to wash the us or them off from the our way or the highway.  Soap to wash the monkey do as i say not monkey see what I do off.  Standing there.  Eyes stinging.  Somebody dam up that river so I can rinse this lather off.  I'd rather see clearly what they've done to me.  To us.  With their prada shoes.  The leer jet blues.  Close my eyes so I can't hear it.  Plug my ears so I can't feel it.  Numb. Self Medicated. Zoloft. Paxil. Xanax.  Self intoxicated to avoid the panic.  May cause shortness of breath or heart attack.  We'll take those odds.  Our delusion of sanity back.  Food.  Water.  Shelter.  Love.  It's all you need.

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

For Jack Kerouac...

For Jack Kerouac from Hoboken, NJ, 3.12.13:
The mundane. The rainy Tuesday morning when the coffee can’t come quick enough or strong enough. On the bus with the cold damp stares. iPhones and ipads. Dumb looks at smart phones. Squeaking breaks get under my skin when the melatonin hasn’t quite worn off yet. Funny how you can go to sleep so inspired and wake up so disheartened. In the office above the garage the smell of garbage and diesel greets. No One Made Coffee yet?!?!? I’m on it. Voicemail. Email. Email. Facebook. Check. Check. Check. Check. What’s news? Who cares about the pope? Jack Kerouac does. Maybe I should have a side of empathy with my disgust for the catholic church. Next up… the rich and powerful don’t give a shit about anyone, but themselves. Maybe one of the bamboozled and fooled gun totin’ tea bagger will realize and shoot ‘em in their bottom line. Where are those walls I use to build so well? My own world makes so much sense. Outside. Or inside this dog eat dog, reality tv, boot strapped, freedom means you’re on your own, world. Where more people still give more of a shit about American Idol then about their neighbor who is starving to death among the world’s wealthiest. Maybe the quarterback can teach our kids the new math. One plus one equals google. Kids told to read while adults play video games. Safety surfaced sidewalks marked by the heels of last night’s indecipherable drunks. The only ones left who make sense to me. Born and raised homeless pleading for change from the people they sold their home to. Ah, to be a fly on the sheetrock… when stick ball was the national past time. Who needs bleachers when we got stoops. Avoiding needle park on the way to a swim in the poisoned Hudson. From dock workers, to artists, to automated everywhere USA cyborgs. Sinatra to Valastro. I wonder what the Beats would Think. Write. Dream. Piss. Drink. In this day at their age. The baton passed to the long lost hippies then dropped. Laying on the dirty ground for decades. Where’s the LOVE, as my rock club manager friend would say. Where’s the love? There’s Lust. There’s Gluttony. There’s Greed. But Love…
Seems harder to come by these days. Left right left to the beat of their drummer. All on the same beat. Handed down from those who can to those who are convinced they don’t have the time to. Have to pay for what used to be free. Just listen to the closest screen you can see. They must know best. They’re the place to be. Right between the world’s worst chefs and three hours of zombies. Still the flowers rise regardless of their power. Look past the glower. The Fear. The Resentment. The Tired. The Bored. The uninspired. Look up past the drones. The clouds are still animals. The Sun still shines, cutting through rain drops to make bows across the sky. Open your eyes. Empty your ears. Your mind. Our mind. That’s where it’s at. The pot may be gold but this kettle’s still black. So much bullshit to set aside. So much beauty they try to hide, replace, emulate. It’s out there. Everywhere. Walk slowly. Breathe Deeply. Drink Heartily. Hear the beat. The beat beneath. Feel the beat in your chest. The Beat. Bumpbump. Bumpbump… bumpbump bumpbump. The boat we’re all in. Oars coming out of our ears. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. For a new tomorrow. For a Change. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Toward a more rational destination. A more together nation. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Toward a brave new world. A greener horizon. Jump in to the deep water. Flail. Kick. Get that head up. Let the grind stone sink. The group think. They lied. We imbibed. Drunk on nonsense and paranoia. Fuck it. The little voice in my head knows better than that. The voice. The mind. The Heart. Dig… Deep… Dig the Beat. Thanks Jack. Love Dave.