what of the morning now existing in blood

i know this written at my father's house...on a computer in a horribly wall papered room that my step sister left for college and a romance with her old highschool band teacher. . . i was still rolling the addiction filled life of a drunken downtown...lil

Walking amongst the sunshine and telephone numbers - vast oceans of Whitman's measureless space - and the drinks poured our feelings out onto the table - what of the death of friends, and the politics of armies and what of the future and the plans and the education man - the world and its technofrolics and alchoholics and speech patterns over digital voice machines and the spleens and the madness of midnight and the reflections - - -  speed induced dreams - the guitars all scream in the stream of thought...what of this all? what of an entire universe on a friday evening rolling over into a sun soaked saturday that we all believe to follow, mmm what of the sunflower sutra and the subtle "on the roads" and under the roads and the who you knows and the small porches hat we torched years ago in the trade for emails and web sites and the contrite fight and the better porn and the better store, and the perfect scorn of a perfect god that we most likely invented before the creation of computers...what of all this s**t? what of the world running away from the beginning, circa 1945, give me hives and the blister and the universal remote control...and an old toaster oven.

what is this paradise - what is this reasoning, and what is there to really do with life if you're thinking all the time and smell the open freshness of this modern stale air, this demonte oblivion canned for space and planets to see, our chiquita labled religions and our nike'd charity and sense of loyalty rolling onto the pages of history and misery and the pure essence of what we thought made us happy - yet it does this new paradise - sad and sobbing wailing truth  of blind and ignorant christs and buddhas and monks that listen to funk and hip hop and clap to the beat of jazzes and jams, that f**k and suck to folk and pop and rock on into the skunk of punk and synth and anger and elation and art....

ART ..god's amazing art here on the morning of march, here on the idea of ides and the death of ceasar, that "my god!!!" shouted and the anti-trust thrust into the ribs, sternum, the back, the thigh, the soul of empires, the model of history, the model of greed and sun light shining between the heavenly images of man, the plans of posterity, purity, democracy, diplomacy, equality, rationality,

goddamn what of this all????

what of the morning now existing in blood and guilt? what of the new morning dawning in time at this moment in a god's lab of creatio, what of it? - ignore it and make due with the hue of sunrise, the radiance of spring and the gentle breeze that it brings

            embrace the grass as father and mother and lover and brother and laughing sister of life, strife, understanding

embrace the echo of nature and the sounds of true importance - not cities destined to fall or cars to fail and rust, smoke or death to be inhaled - embrace the rose of the earth, pull it to your chest, give it all a rest and crumble clay like and fade like  the afternoon sun....

there are other songs that need to be sung, there are useless hearts not yet stung, and there are poets masturbating their time and life away with such inane s**t as thought and care and the divine insanity of breathing air....

laugh god,

laugh and you know that you have always won,

god,

thought up creator of oblivion,

champion

Author's Note

used to get me on stage with this one and i would swing in the beat of these words ...

Reviews

[jkhatz]

This is nothing short of absolute brilliance. I LOVED IT! I read it and then re-read it. I'll stop by often just to revisit such an amazing write.