Day Dreamed Of Spiking The **********’s [Redacted] Diet Coke With LSD.
Day dreamed of spiking the **********’s [Redacted] Diet Coke with LSD.
Of course, I don’t know that that would do much good. Never done LSD myself. Some day. Maybe.
Was going to throw some lines out but nothing is really coming to me.
Plans. Plans of mice and men. Best laid.
Laid and paid. Can never get both, ya dig?
Gotta get outta this place.
Game, set, match, cowardice.
.Don’t play tennis. Never played it. Never watched it. Never think about it.
Dubious metaphor. Why reference something you know precisely dick about, dog?
That’s been on my mind.
What?
Appropriated blackness, ya dig? You want depth or whatever it is so you channel a voice that ain’t your own. That creeps into my voice both on the page and out there and I’m not sure how the fuck I feel about it. I mean, is that right?
I blacked out the owner of the Diet Coke due to paranoia. You can probably guess who it is. It occurs to me that the paranoia might be preposterous because who really cares what some loser writes on some blog almost nobody reads. You never know though. I’m not too keen on having a sit down with Feds.
Fuck.
God damn it.
Fuck.
Structure.
I need to read poems or something. Let that seep into me. Let it influence me. I learned not too long ago that the Vietnamese Communist leader Ho Chi Minh wrote poems. I read a few of them. I dug them, especially the ones he wrote while incarcerated. There was something really honest and pure there. There is something about the work of someone who is not noted for being a poet. There is something about the work of people you don’t ever study in some course in school. Example from Ho Chi Minh:
A COMRADES PAPER BLANKET
New books, old books, the leaves all piled together.
A paper blanket is better than no blanket.
You who sleep like princes, sheltered from the cold,
Do you know how many men in prison cannot sleep all night?
I mean. God damn it. That hits me.
CLEAR MORNING
The morning sun shines over the prison wall,
And drives away the shadows and miasma of hopelessness.
A life-giving breeze blows across the earth.
A hundred imprisoned faces smile once more.
See. Nothing too mysterious or abstract there. He’s just writing about his situation.
Yeah. I know. Blood on his hands. The French and The Americans had blood on their hands too. Not too many heroes there.
Or anywhere really.
Heavenly father,
One more day.
Have mercy on your boy
but if not on me, someone who fuckin’ needs it more.
Can ya do that?
Amen.
More Posts from Mistahsojourner and Others
One day
I can awaken from the dream
and I’ll be a YouTube star.
My idiosyncrasies will be viral
and my soul will be trademarked.
Maybe I can buy myself a seat
on The Muskrat’s space boat to Mars
and I can suffocate
with the richest
and the sexiest
while the people left behind watch
while the minds that coded all the killer apps
die well-dressed.
Maybe I’ll upload
in some time, some place
that’s warm
and that ain’t so cruel
and that’s broken in some way
that’s easier to fix.
Maybe one day
I can awaken from the dream
as a man
who sorta knows what to do
sorta knows the truth
sorta knows how to love.
If I could exist as some kinda layabout, I would do that. I’d shave when I want to. I’d sleep when I want to. In fact, I’ve kinda done this. I’ve spent a great deal of time jobless. You get a ton of time to yourself. Thing is though, it’s pretty much a living hell. Even if you have a place to go if you absolutely cannot pay your bills, it’s awful. You don’t feel like you have a reason to be living. You don’t feel like you deserve to live. Fuck. It was one of the worst things I’ve ever experienced. I did that off and on for about 6 years.
I fucking need space.
I could have spent all that time that I had writing but I had even less focus than I do now.
Day started all chill and then all of a sudden everything was on fire. Had excitable bougie folk to the left and to the right of me. I’ll spare you the details. It’s really not important.
I could pat myself on the back for surviving all that. I could say I’m tougher for having gone through it. Fuck that noise. I’m not.
I’m just glad that it’s over for the moment.
Tomorrow is the 4th of July. I’m just thankful for the day off of work. I don’t plan on celebrating. Fuck nationalism. The only thing I’ll really be celebrating is waking up and being aware of the fact that I’m not punching a clock. I’ve spent a lot of national holidays sitting at a desk in some ugly-ass, depressing office somewhere with a headset on waiting for phone calls. There is a tone in my ear and there is someone terribly surprised that someone is actually working. Some would even comment about how terrible it was that I was working on the 4th of July.
God damn it. I spent way too long answering phones. I will forever be bitter about that. I’m never getting over that.
My brain is fried.
The President
I’m going to tell you the truth.
Not gonna put sugar or honey on it.
It’s not that I disagree with the President or his policies.
It’s not that he represents everything that is soulless and wrong.
No.
It’s that I fucking despise him.
With everything in me.
I hate him. I don’t give a flying fuck about discourse or listening to or understanding the other side. If you are going to come to me with that, fuck you. I don’t care. We are past that. What has the fucking discourse ever gotten us? What has being respectable gotten us?
You can tell me that I’m wrong in my hate. That’s fine. Maybe you’re concerned with the effect that such intense feeling has on my health. I mean, God bless you if you think that. Let me tell you, it’s hard to carry around, aight?
See. I’m owning the hate. I’m not dressing it up in some pretty three piece suit and calling it something polite. Nah. This is me owning it. It’s ugly. It’s awful but I’m owning it.
I go off sometimes. I fucking lose it. I lose my voice. I get told by people, “Oh. You’re so full of hate. Everybody hates him so much. It’s scary.” What the fuck?! WHAT THE FUCK?! What do you think he’s full of? Love? Hell no. If you are going to put on that stupid red hat, you do not get to play that card. That’s perverse.
I’m reasonably certain there is an alternate timeline where America descends into fascism to the strains of “Holding out For a Hero” by Bonnie Tyler.
Even as I sing along about pining for a street-wise Hercules, the spirit of eternal fascism tickles me.
This song pines for Charles Bronson in Death Wish.
It’s calling out for a version of Walt from Gran Torino who doesn’t have a redemption arc.
It’s calling for a cop who becomes like The Punisher in real life.
Umberto Eco wrote of the cult of heroism.
This song could be the hymn for the cult of the avenging hero.
You gotta know why you're doing something, don't you?
Half naked.
Arms raised like some prophet preachin’ what nobody wanted to hear
but I bleed for ‘em
so they love me
Get punched.
Get kicked.
The more it hurts
The more they feel it
that stuff people think is the holy spirit.
Tightness in the chest
need bed rest
but the show must go on
the roar of the diabetic souls
that in the night
tell me not to mix those two things
gets me through another one.
Fly to victory
and then the waiting room.
Maybe I'm doing something right.
Maybe.
I don't fucking know though.
You feel me?
Can't even dress it up.
Anything that ever worked wasn't cuz of the white boy in me.
I wanna mean that.
Loosely connected thoughts.
Back to the lab again.
Just tryin' to live.
She told me, "May you find your worth in the waking world."
I picked up the controller again.
She shook her head and insisted I had learned what I needed to learn.
The waking world.
Back to the world.
To try and live.
Ordinary man.
Trying to live.
That's all.
