The symbol of America’s Bald Eagle has been replaced by a Greedy Grey Buzzard, an aged vulture feeding on the already stripped carcass of the country’s dead dream.
There is no meat left for the children this winter. And that, now, world-wide. Politics aside…business is running the show anyway.
But what do I know? Who am I? If I have a cold day in hell’s chance of figuring this all out, I ain’t aware of it. It’s all very complicated.
I just notice that a few have all the apples…and the rest of us, none.
Something holds me back. If I happen to get my shit together for a period, if I start feeling confident, if I begin to believe…invariably, at some, point I wake up with a shock.
“What the? I thought we were getting somewhere, and here we are again.”
I wake up in my jail. Serving time again. A citizen’s arrest of my own progress.
So then, of course, I want to figure out what makes me arrest myself. But how, when I am unable to understand the charges against me? When I ask myself to explain the guilty verdict, I avoid answering the questions.
Every attempt to isolate the problem results in the problem scurrying off and hiding somewhere anew.
I needed a step back from what I was writing three months ago which I was increasingly finding quite self-important, and just cheesy crap, really. I guess half of me is a depressive, drama-queen, moody artist type…which makes the logical part of me cringe, wanna’ vomit on my crybaby-ass self…but hey, that just me.
The problem is that anything you do is self-important crap, by the very fact that you do it. I guess the question is for who or for what you create your art. Everything depends on your subject matter.
It all comes down to whether or not I consider myself a special snowflake, or just like every other poor sucker.
If I realize I am just like everyone, I feel grounded, authentic, legitimate…but then I start thinking “what makes me so special to write a bunch of shit.”
If I pretend I’m special, I start writing, but eventually get the distinct feeling I am disconnected from reality.
Thank whatever god something is pushing me back off my lazy ass. Jesus.
I am not sure if I’m talking about myself right now, or if I’m talking about the plight of every human on this planet.
Might as well try to stand up for what you believe.
Mutiny, if that’s your cup of tea.
The Me Generation, the Generation of Swine, the Boomers are consuming anything and everything they can scrounge for themselves before its gone, jealously guarding the last of the provisions as the crew of the adrift and rudderless ship starve. They are apparently betting on armageddon…the end of the world. Then, it doesn’t really matter if they’ve used up the last of everything.
Breaking News! No End of the World is coming. Sad fact.
Not in the clean and tidy sense, at least. Perhaps a horrible collapse again into war, social upheaval and general chaos…which could very well, at this nuclear day and age, spell the destruction of our species…but there ain’t no Rapture in that. Only suffering.
Women and children first. As always.
We actually must deal with this world and these problems…they are not going away.
No one is getting beamed to heaven, unless we all go together.
Humanity is like kindergarten. We share everything whether we want to or not.
Read your bibles, Korans, Torahs, whathaveyous, again. Your Heaven or Hell, your virgins, chaos or nirvana, are found right here on earth.
That’s the central metaphor.
Humanity has always been a team effort.
It’s Liberty, Solidarity, Equality, for all, or we all suffer in hell.
Right here, right now, 24/7 365.
And currently a bunch of red-faced dicks with horns and pitchforks are running the show.
Too stupid to even fool us fools anymore.
Mutiny is only a matter of time. Gaddafi, the fate of the fat cats.
Egypt is coming.