Move Over, Old Folks

Move over, old folks, you had your war; you rebelled with the best of 'em, you stuck to your guns and your opinions, your songs of freedom and realizing how Tricky Dick was screwing everyone over far too late. You signed your contracts, you fulfilled your obligations, you sat in the middle of streets facing American tanks and died. Your rallies caused international attention to the world's infections. You stood up, declared yourself a person, and flung your opinions at the other side of opposition, the wrong ones, the right ones; and deemed the ones who said "it doesn't matter" as foolish. Move over, old folks, 'cause us youngin's who don't know a dang thing about life are in its own warfield of rallying, protestin', defyin', and where are our Bob Dylans? He might have not liked being pegged for telling the truth about what was happening, but when so many people try prettying-up the truth about today, who are the ones that die to unmask everyone by exposing them to What Really Is?

I'll always stand by the fact that in order to not be assassinated, or heralded by any 'side', you MUST be a comedian. Only in comedy can you get away for telling the truth. Up to a point. RIP Bill Hicks. RIP Lenny Bruce. RIP Smother's Brothers. Hey Mr. Tambourine Man, play a truth for me. My generation makes me sick, and there's an Afghanistan war I'm heading to. Like all the ones of old paths had lent their hand to humanity's stance, so shall we, the voices oncee ignored and slighted; ignited and meant to be chained, NO LONGER! NO LONGER. NO. LONGER.

Every generation has had its cause for rising above the masses. Every. Single. Generation. Whether it be musically, socially, in literature, or individually, politically or even mentally; spiritually. Look over the catastraphic events that have happened since the beginning of the year. A 7 month time frame period. In five months, this world will be one step closer to a new year done. Five months. LOOK at what has HAPPENED TO YOU and ALL AROUND YOU during the past 7 months.

Old folks tell me my generation don't know nothin' about nothin'. If that's true, then why am I not alone in believing that a change is coming? Yes, our friends, another change is coming. I'm not talking about a revolution. It's already been happening, and some people still refuse to believe anything significant is happening behind the lines we can't see. I'm not talking about the Government. I'm not talking about any destruction, except the destruction of tradition. The destruction of silence. The destruction of fear, the destruction of alienating your person. The destruction of misunderstanding amongst social races, cultures, sexes, and mental places. Within all of us is a Berlin wall, ready to be knocked down.

Longest War in U.S History.. and what has my generation done to show their outrage for the past 9 years? An entire decade, and what have I done to show my FUCKING PISSED-OFF SELF AT THIS FUCKING SOCIETY!?

To think I tried killing myself so many times before. To think we try killing ourselves when it becomes unbearable, when there's so much more to do. Take care, people over 30. You've lived your life and can now bear your scars. It's time for us youngins to gaze upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

Freewheelin' Spontaneity

Touch me. I can't feel a thing right now, 'cause I'm not all here. When I say here, I don't mean mentally. Mentally I'm the igloo that you can't see, don't shower inside in forwards with a worth you could handle--more aligned than rightful's opportunity anyday of the winking barbell symphony you can stand inside, with a record, uh, player. Recorder round, get it? Touch me so I can get you. Have you, want you, won
t by the time this notebook is through, mail this sent letter clear across borderline statelines mental minds got themselves shackled, all stuckled up inside the same humdrum jailroner rinner thin-struck candle-streaking cellophane plastic-wrappers I'll Say Goodnight Ev'ry Morning After song that comes, yes, ain't it real fun sayin' damn dame, goodnight to y-o-o-o--u-u-u-u?

Say goodnight more times to being touched, see, when I can't find my way around the gypsy curls of old memory, odes memory come tribute for the wainright right-wing leftist zealot pophetic prophetic malcalyptic majestic cryptic wings don't DIGEST these overflamed nonsencial derivative adjectives! Don't harken the hampered synanyms! Don't mistake the misunderstood sins o' this generation falls inside of & wonders why ev'ry grinnin' ijit comes round, says Why I wanna Die When I Haven't Lived?

Nao, don't ask me why I ramble like a drunk, & don't ask me why I'm sober 27 hours of the day, 9 days a week, 12 weeks a month, 32 years a decade, now gimme my lucky cigarette 'cause I've got a beat in my mind, I've got a time in my righteyelid, s'coming round close & you know I know you think this time's all wasted, can't find a story to tell less it sells itself to me, y'know out on the corner of 7th & 32nd avenue, over by the Sailor's department where all the drunk bards hang out, call themselves poets & thinkers & philosophers, say they got a good thing going, talking existential matters of matterless formations of pseudo-fauxity, what's a foe to me that can't be a friend inside a hankerdown-thin dream? Don't wkae up in an hour see another mind, kiss me good, see, & touch me fine--heed fine the song inside, beats low, thums harder, breath stippens, lust want love carnivore symphony sylabble creates wishes aligned, no matter the instance divide, & sees they themselves t'wards the coffeecups overjoyous to be drunk dreaming up: "Yes yes yes swirl me 'round your mouth, you want good time all night ALL NIGHT WE SAY ALL NIGHT why drink my streams create real good time, all night I SAY."

& y'know I know we know nobody can disagree after seven cups & can't even keep still through foggy mess-ruins the mind inside alive I'll how ever be, won't say a goddamn thing this yet for the life I know exists beyond their bordered windowsills thick & foggy, ruined by Christmas & repentin' by that Spring, that memory, new memory on the road to create, more careless hearts to break, more virginity's to take & recreational mornings to bake, more evenings to wake & take away the toilet from that gat damn telephone, boy, them's coffeehouse philosophers coming 'round here sometime soon, & gee baby, ain't I rambled on enough time for you?

Until next night when I think of a story to think, & see-through this untamed beast keeps me right the mind for writin' all-night 'till my life's end comes true. Cheers.