Thoughts
Blasted son-of-a-bitch superstar's daydream on a Wednesday-like Sunday,
If only I could find my way home through the valley of darkness,
But chains are strapped to the little rings on the elbows of my long white
coat,
And my flashlight batteries have been dead for a long time.
But not to generalize the rubbish of the lovely people of our lives,
Spinning, soaring circles of political, social metaphor,
Simple analogy, misplaced, misled, mishandled and dead,
Language hiding the faults, illusion guiding the head.
The repeating dream of mankind in the form of blocks,
Moving, impossibly huge cubes of shadow, crowding,
Packed together, yet still moving, crushing, shifting
plates of granite and ice, smooth from abrasion.
I wonder how I sleep with these thoughts, sometimes
as the block itself, often as the child avoiding them,
But how can I avoid this ubiquitous presence, these illusions,
They've directed my dreams because they direct our lives.
Though I say direct when I ought to say control, no, influence,
yet maybe, create or envision, govern perhaps, surround and dictate,
yes, that's it, the constant muttering, shouting, suggesting, demanding,
rebuking then ignoring, the hypnotic jingle, jingle, jingling.
It's confusing, is it not? Dreams of stardom, beliefs in one's 'superiority,'
or so I've been told since birth (what good parents to encourage you so).
High expectations, burden or goal, try and succeed, practice to perfection,
the will falling to its knees, failure piling as blocks on its back.
Yet do not misunderstand me, for I am conscious of my self-worth,
Revealed to me on a bi-weekly basis, written, accounted fact,
My intellect, compassion, friendship, and integrity,
Value all encompassed in my fifteen smacks per hour.
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Updated Thursday, 04-Mar-2004 14:58:32 PST