Monday, August 18

In the Street

The only people for me are the Roman candle people, those flames which consume themselves by their own hunger for attention, the sparkly fire-cracker people who explode themselves in a burst of strenuous energy demanding, craving, burning for validation, who shine across three cubic feet of night sky and make everyone say "ooh, aah" and then are promptly forgotten in the interest of more important matters.
I am America's beat poet.
I am the son of privilege, the self-afflicted martyr, the child with a father and mother who just don't understand him, the brother seeking to belittle my siblings' accomplishments in favor of my own mediocrity, a far distant cousin to the homeless.
I am the ascetic who has taken a vow of poverty and wants everyone to know it.
I am the undiscovered genius, read and favored by other undiscovered genius, special only because of my obscurity.
I have been noticed by the few, and because they are few they can call themselves elite, because in my world correlation equals causation, and by calling themselves elite they can sleep easy at night knowing they are superior, yet I sleep at night knowing I am the most superior of all, because I am singular, misunderstood, thrown aside by a world I have found too challenging, too difficult, too hard for my fomenting genius. I am apart from the rest of the world, yet seek my validation from it.
I sit in coffee shops.
I sit in street corners.
I desperately want you to know that I crave privacy.
Yet I read in public, write in public, sing, play guitar, perform in public, wishing someone would come up to me and ask what I was reading, what I was writing, who wrote that delectable tune on the guitar?
I did.
Thanks for not asking.
I have been educated at the bosom of the obscure institution, a small liberal arts college, where I was shown that Marxism is the only hope for the working class, that Lenin was right, that Castro will succeed if only given the chance.
I became so caught up in my love for the New World Order that I was always looking forward, onward, upward to an impossible tomorrow, where all men are equal, there are no genders, no families, no working class.
I neglect to look behind, to the sweat of my ancestors' brows that provide for this college education, to the structure of capitalism which allows such ideas to be manufactured and sold. There's no need to live in the past.
My stories, poems, vignettes, rondels, free verse, and poetry slam poems are exercises in Attention Deficit Disorder. I see the beauty in everything, and explain it in offensive ways. The butterfly lands on my shoulder not like the kiss of a lover in a dream, but like a piece of ash from the World Trade Center. There is a swelling, intense, engorged feeling in my bowels, and I describe the beautiful releasing of my sphincter as I poop in almost sexual reverie. I write for pages and pages of description, never seeing where my work is going or tying it back to what I have written, only content to be in the moment, to see a snippet of time frozen forever on the page. Devils can take storylines, plots, and character development. This is about what I see, where I am right now. I want you to be me.
I want you to validate me.
I have no need to edit, spell check, or make my work any gooder. I write, freewheeling through the pages, splashing my ink here and there with a memorable word or two, never wishing to oppress this feeling of freedom that I believe I have. To edit is to say that I am not good enough to do it perfectly the first time.
I have a fragile self-esteem. Please validate me.
There is no improvement, no self-analysis. There is only being in the page. I am content to be as I am, now and forever, suckling at the financial teat of my parents long after my college years are done, railing against an iron pig of a society who does not understand what it's like to be me, who won't validate me, who says my words "need work" when all I want to do is be on this page, safe in my nest of insecurity, snuggled against my fellow would-be paupers in a disgusting facsimile of la vie Boheme.
I am America's beat poet.


Bring me a drink.
Click this shit!

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