i'm tired

i'm tired

i'm tired of white girls
who curl their hair
and black girls
who straighten theirs
i'm tired of asians
who get surgery on their eyes
in a real life imitation
of a twilight zone
i'm tired of punks in army planes
who burn people with bombs
because their country called
and i'm tired of the fantasy world
known as reality tv
i'm tired of the worries that come
from working and the worries that come
from looking for work when you don't have it
i'm tired of bad music
buble and botti both
and all the bastards who buy their recordings
i'm tired of flat screen tv's, cell phones, cable, computers
and i'm tired of people driving their cars to a destination
that leads nowhere
i'm tired of getting up every morning
when both my body and brain
shout for sleep
i'm tired of paying rent to lords who have no right to the land
and i'm tired of water bills
in a world that is 3/4 water
i'm tired of the ceaseless search
the posturing, the playing at power
and all the small talk
i'm tired of conversation
i'm tired of saying hi
i'm tired of people saying my name but
i'm tired of quiet also
i'm tired of the crowds
but i don't want to be alone either
i'm tired of it all
but thirsty for more
i'm tired, and i'm sure you are as well
of this poem
peace

but, not yet. one of these days, we will sing. the song will flow out, the words will ring clear out of this world, and somewhere, sammy will say "good evening" but only pinko and i will smile. and from above, or below, dean gets drunk on tap water, and sinatra tells his amos and andy jokes between songs. right now, somewhere far from the hell that is our earth, jackie wilson spins, coltrane attempts, perhaps in vain, to speak to god through his music, and ike quebec has the time to make all the bossa records he wants. somewhere, eric dolphy makes a living, and martin and malcolm debate the necessity of non-violence. in the superior surroundings of my imagination, wardell grey floats above a trio and not in a river. in a better place, sam cooke doesn't face death for fucking a white woman, paul robeson is not drugged by the cia, and hemingway is not spied on by the fbi. i think i would kill for such a world, but i wouldn't know where to start. perhaps that's where suicide comes in; you want to kill so you start with yourself. the tragedy is that in our fucked, perverted world, we lose the good ones, while others get corrupted and see their idealism wither as they mature into nothingness. perhaps when literal bombs (we don't seem to be able to pick up on the figurative ones) are falling on our faces, we will realize that all is far from fine. but, by then, of course, it will be too late.

as, i'm sure you know, it already is.

so, eat and drink up. find a diversion of your choice. cover your eyes and claim blindness because the crimes of our existence are too compelling. so, we choose ignorance, indifference, apathy. we cry and complain about the wrong things, the shallow things, the meaningless things, the bullshit, who deserved to win american idol, whether the refs called the game right, who has the better body blah blah blah. such shit doesn't satisfy, it doesn't even make you snicker.

we are all fucked

have a nice day.