but i don’t believe them, because i wrote metric fucktons of it – not that all of it was bad, not that everything the Dizzybird Collective produced was bad, but there is bad poetry – i know, i was there.
but, having said that, it’s been a few decades since then… a work in progress…
my future lies with the merchants of fear,
screaming in my face,
asking me if i’m terrified enough…
not am i scared, not am i fearful, not do i cry out in the night.
am i terrified enough… to give them my brain?
(souls are cheap and beneath their notice, minds are currency)
they want to own minds so they can turn them off, keep them silent,
spend them on the blasphemies of their choice.
buy me, sell me,
make me another marcher
toward the cliffs of cultural oblivion.
make me a lemming,
a stereotypical cliche of an oft-and-over-used metaphor for all the tried-and-true old wives’ tales –
make me my country’s folk hero myth, the common man,
another body to prop up all the old lies and tired promises
about a dream that’s always been just that – a dream.
am i terrified enough?
there’s a call to join this obscenity and everywhere i turn they’re screaming in my face,
asking me, telling me, ordering me to be fearful –
every reason in the world,
everything in the world is a threat and
i grew up under the shadow of the mushroom,
when our wars were cold,
and “if i grow up” didn’t mean you were economically disadvantaged,
it meant you lived near a target on the nuclear dartboard.
so i just laugh –
i’ve seen scary
and this shit ain’t it:
immigrants and terrorists,
gay marriage and big government,
socialism and gun control,
health care and welfare,
blacks and browns,
yellows and mixed,
women anywhere but the kitchen,
(unless they’re politicking for women to stay in the kitchen).
i’ve seen scary before,
and this shit ain’t it.
it’s not finished yet, more a collection of ideas slammed together… but it’s all i got right now.
it was a great night, y’all take care.
Listening to: my bed calling me