I can’t speak for anyone else, but something’s gotta give. It’s gonna blow! This planet’s gonna explode any second. Do you think I care? Does anyone? My special-interest group friends. Say a little prayer for me. It’s perplexing. Pray! The devout don’t like Antifa, as in anti-fascism. So they’re pro-fascists, no? For god or against. They invent a word to define their hatred, and reveal their true nature. To hate anyone or anything that’s not them. Those people over there. A toast to the ghosts you’ve lived with throughout your lifetime.
Are these simply decent people, who call themselves good Christians? You know the type who answer, it’s proud white Americans, date back to the British Isles. They live here, the ones who came over, the Plymouth Rock people, the persecuted pilgrims on the Mayflower. The ones not wearing chains. Fleeing religious persecution? Everyone else gets treated like they’re merely guests here. Woke as hell, aware of all this bullshit going down. If you’re not waked, then you must be sleeping? Rest in peace, wildest dreams, imagine if you could dream and be awake, simultaneously? They woke up.
Social Media is like a psychopath with anti-social paranoia. Watch in awe, stupefied. None in imaginary places doing nothing on a billion computer screens. Peeping Toms, voyeurs, stepping into tomorrow's dog shit. Watch it happening live in front of blinking eyes. It’s a slow-motion mind wreck of thumbnail images. Participating with yourself in a solitary act, while everyone’s watching. Like the dream of being in a room full of people in your underwear. Watching yourself live on video. You’re in your underwear dreaming about being in your underwear in a room full of people pointing at you, but you don’t care because they’re in their underwear too.
If everybody walked around naked, there would be no shame in it. No fear revealing your nude self, but wide awake. Some never wake up. That’s a problem for better people than me to decipher at a different angle. Doing a delicate dance across the wobbly balance beam. Tipsy ballerina pirouette’s in biker boots. Across the stage.
Desperate pantomime, yelling at the crowd, screaming at imaginary clouds. Yelling in silence. Cut off your ears. Poke out your eyes. Plucking a flower of evil from your butt. Viola! Butterflies in your stomach. Roaches in the kitchen. A frog in your throat. Have another shot and a beer. That’s the way!
Feeling grateful that I’m still here. Some days, barely hanging on, yet still breathing. Do I know you? A serious crisis of freedom. In a lack of faith and in trusted confidence. I sense this has repercussions. A chip on my shoulder. To die a happy death another day, the weight of this burden, lifted with song. An affirmation of love, respect, and kindness. It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s fair game for fodder. Who am I to argue? A terrible judge of character. Do you ever feel like you’ve outlived yourself? There’s nothing left to do about it, nothing left to lose.
Once taut, brave, swaying with the other side of the wind. Blowing in the breeze. Drifting and swaying. Drinking it all in. Wave that flag to get the bartender’s attention. Men, women, children, lend me your money. Buy me a drink! Drinks all around. Your money’s no good here. Greetings from the underworld. Lift those glasses and toast the host. Here’s to reality! Drink up! It’s the only game in town. Throw down your troubles and raise a glass. Gaze in the mirror backwards. Salute! Don’t shed a salty tear, wasted on the past. To future joy and happiness! Please drink responsibly with gusto! Cheer up! Things could be worse.