Living in crummy rundown downtown apartments, chain-smoking Marlboros,
cheap red wine hangovers, I watch the dust swirling in the sunlight coming
in through smoke-stained ratty curtains. And while listening to this
album, I decided it was time to start living.
In the days before gas-powered leaf-blowers, what did Mother Nature
do about all the fallen leaves on the ground?
While I tend to agree with the idea that Adam was the first perfected
soul and hence known as the First Son and later returned as Jesus the
Christ and shall return again in some other guise, I don't think he
would have bothered with raking leaves and walking around wearing a
leaf jumpsuit. There are more pressing matters a developing soul ought
to concern itself with other than worrying what to do when a leaf falls
or where.
And what of the gravitational pull of the moon? It has very little,
or perhaps none at all, and so fare thee well, sweet moon, as you drift
further and farther away with each revolution around a dying sun. About
an inch every year by some estimates. And when the moon is gone, what
becomes of the tides that brought in the early morning clown fish and
schools of silver dollars feeding upon the reef? And where then will
the winds blow, if not from the moon?
Good thing I'm not a manager. I would fire the idiots with whom
I work -- those half-wit drooling mongoloids -- and replace them with
$2/hour flesh-bots out of China or India. The flesh-bots have no loyalties
other than to that dollar sign minted, coined, and printed in the United
States. Sure, they desire better lives for their families and themselves
and are quite willing to sever ties to any and all previous beliefs --
Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, Christianity. Lah-dee-fucking-da. Chalk it up
to youthful naivete. What matters now is the kind of car you drive and the
value of your property, taxes and homeowners association fees included.
How quickly spiritual beliefs fall to the wayside when one must contend
with the needs of the flesh -- eating, drinking, fucking, and all beneath
the safe confines of a sturdy roof. You sit in your $800 leather recliner
and shake your head at the suffering you see out there in the world,
coming to you live from the CNN newsfeed and displayed on that 52-inch
flat-screen TV. You'll text a $10 donation to the Red Cross to help ease
your troubled mind and maybe say a prayer at next Sunday's church service.
God? What god? I've got a full-time job with a 401k and health
benefits. I pay my taxes. The IRS is my god. I make more in an hour than
what most of those Third World fucks make in an entire year.
We go forth. Willing slaves to the meat-grinder. Sacrificing flesh as
if it were little more than hamburger for tomorrow night's dinner. Bring
the ketchup and mayo. It's gonna be a barbecue.
No sense getting stressed out over things. They are just things,
after all. And these things tend to work themselves out after a while. And
the things that don't -- well, those things probably didn't matter,
anyway.
What is worry but a kind of muted fear? Let it go like a black-winged
butterfly in the night, fluttering off into the darkness of your mind.
