Boogaloo Boy

a rant of the creative mind

 

 

 

Stars, darling, stars. What do we call those words expanding almost effortlessly in our minds? Are we going towards that unknown future with chagrin and a set jaw or will we face it with our guns out, our guns of Brixton , firing away, screaming that we won't take anymore, we're not gonna be pushed around. Will we someday kiss, our lips meeting in a sad embrace for the last time before parting once and forever to go our separate ways even though I have yet to meet you? Must we part before you exist and before you, my mad poet has had a chance to hold me in your arms? Must I tell you over and over again that I love you even though I don't know your name or face or what you think of while you lie awake at night staring at the ceiling as though it held an answer that could not be found anywhere else in the world?  What's the point of words and sentences and paragraph breaks if it can't get the meaning across and can't tell the deepest thoughts that dwell in the corners of your mind along with the spiders and the ogres from your childhood and beyond? How far will I travel before I realize the truth of my situation and find out if it is in fact hopeless, as many say, or if there is a chance for redemption or hope or if that is long past, buried in the sands of time along with you? My feet can carry me only so far before I collapse in exhaustion, lusting for that past time when everything seemed right, yearning to get out of this era of hopelessness where the very air seems to pulsate with nihilism wanting to push down on the globe until it explodes like a grape squeezed too hard by a young child.  All this time I've wanted companionship, but now I'm picky. This chick won't settle for just any desperado walking across the tumbleweed ridden landscape waving his gun in a slow, twirling pattern in front of his face. The future lies ahead and indeed, it is unwritten, and typos have probably been made to be sprinkled along the pages waiting for me to trip over them, rocks in my path, while I simply try to get to the other side of the river before the trackers catch me gone. 8 months? 9 years? What's the difference when the desperado can't find the Mexican Senorita?