We grow. Yes. We must.
A great artist, was one that was said to really know how to see the jukebox, and said it looked like a coffin.
A great artist was just a person who was born in Mississippi or Baton Rouge during a strange season when snowy hills were powdered on the bayou. She was an infant once, and he, she, this human laughed and doodled a hang man drawing covered in flowers as the sun stained the windows, and whom later on in life, grew up into a great film maker, and who was laid to rest not too long ago in Oregon. They, the great artist, was foremost a great human, a great lover of life, of people.
As I’ve said over and over again, and I can’t repeat all the words and all of the states of art and love for humanity that I’ve seen; as I’ve narrated that nothing can duplicate the reels of memories of all these dreams that are just another version of history, made up of all these words that come from somewhere, a place, invisible but there, a sand-dune or an empty desert, where a friend has exiled himself from the city; places made out of words that come from somewhere, as the ghosts of the night aren’t even seen with the head that is mine.
And what will the future show all of us humanoid creatures? Generations of people who pale in comparison to the holy universe, just static from the a.m. radio, scattered places only miles away from where we first started to follow our existential adventure.
We grow. Yes. We must.
This is, this is, well this is the what have you. This is the night, and please, will you? Will you please sing some time-songs; songs, any songs. Ah Hell, just sing some songs man. Sing a song for me, for you, for everybody, and yes, for sure, yeah, we can sing it all night long.
Care for a swell before you sing. It’s not much, only vodka, but it will do just fine. Warm ya right up.
We grow. Yes. We must.
There isn’t enough ink in the world, our world, society; a human collage made by the imagination of the mind’s pallet, places built and ran by machines; there isn’t enough ink, enough craftiness left on this planet to harness the visions of the Americans, the greatness of now my American culture, people who will no longer stand for the virus that we have been given.
Local news, never mind any of this. Local distraction, boring and disruptive. Sad, so sad.
Local news causes Mozart to cringe. Albert Camus said we’re all executioners. He also said that a free press can be good or bad, but a press without freedom most certainly will be bad. What he said was, and is, still true.
Local news, never mind any of this; this local news, this local old-time white man news, this racist news, this retributive news, this insulting my intelligence news, this local pity party type of small-minded news.
Local news, never mind any of this.
We grow. Yes. We must.
Now let’s get on with it my fellow humans. Let’s pull ourselves up from the boot straps and smile, please smile, because that’s all life is for. Life is for smiling and for loving, and if you waste that, then you waste being human. And this is what the local news will never tell you. This is what I will tell you. The first thing is this:
The local news will never tell you that you are loved, and if you think that there isn’t one person or maggot or fossil-man on this planet or galaxy within…oh, I just had an idea…wait.
We grow. Yes. We must.
If you don’t think that you are loved, whoever you are, well I stand here, no, I sit here, with ink in order to say to you, that yes, I love you. That is what I will tell you.
Local news, never mind any of that.
We grow. Yes. We must.
On March 30th, 2012, and yes, I really do; I type with my very own human fingers that I love you, and I will give you everything that I have, which is not too much if you add it up with currency. But why not, yes, YES, I will give you everything, just so you can be happy.
And I’m not god, phew, or the son of the gods, and heck, I’m not even a great man, just a man; I’m just one human being that will always fight for you. I will always love you. I will always tell you that you are loved.
And I will just do this, although I do admit, that sometimes I will be angry and sometimes my hair will be messy. Sometimes I will smell badly and sometimes I will forget about everything that I’ve ever said. I will even forget these words, these words that I have physically written.
Please, please, please force me. Force me to read what I’ve just said, for I will forget, I know myself all too well, and yeah, I forget things, important things, life lesson type of things.
Help me, show me what I’ve recklessly now just jotted down, cause I will forget. At times it will seem that I’ve forgotten everything. I will get mad. I will huff and puff and roll my eyes, and even I, yes, even I will yell and get all crazy and sometimes booze bubbles with slurred words will come out of my head and dang-oops-oh why; somehow with the gift of air my words will be pointed towards the direction of my mouth. Sometimes these misgivings will be said to you, for they will at times, roll off my lips.
But please, remind me, cause I will forget. I will get manic. I will get dumb, real dumb. Sometimes I will hate, or seem to hate, and sometimes my love transforms under dirt and these words will be covered in what looks like hate. Shame me. Remind me. Do not pity me. Just show me.
Please remind me. Please tell me that you are loved, and when I say by who? Say by you, YOU; you are the one that wrote with ink and said I love, that I am loved.
I will say that I’m sorry, that why yes my friend, I was mistaken, that I had it all wrong. I will inform you that I’m sorry for forgetting, and It’s just, just that I was beaten badly by life. I was down and out and was dragging through the back of the city. I had nowhere to go. But yes my friend, my fellow human, I was lost. Yes, YES, YES, yes, you most certainly are loved.
And love, love is what I have to give to you, cause as I’ve told you already, on March 30th 2012, that you, whoever you are; I’ve said that you are loved. I signed the contract, and it wasn’t an agreement in subjective opinions. Nope, it was the truth, fact, a solid truism.
I must have forgotten my friend, and I did. I forgot when I was lost, when I was lost in the darkness of the orchestration that these dirty digital walls have given to my generation. But yes, I only forgot. I was just lost. Thank you for reminding me.
We grow. Yes. We must.
And now this is our time. This is our world, our country, our digital democracy. Freedom is love and freedom which is love is always elastic and can be formed into whatever you want, and as long as it is love, well then, it is also free. Love is rehabilitation. Freedom is not retributive, never.
This is our time, your time, all of our time, and we will remember. And if I do, please show me that I forgot. Show me that on March 30th 2012 I remembered. I remembered, yes, I promised to remember that we are good, we are humans, that we’re love, we are free.
Show me, make me remember in my darkest of hours, remind me that we are mere organic humans.
Show me, even when I don’t want to hear it, that the only truth that really matters, the truth of the human, is love.
We grow. Yes. We must.
P.S. Found another Typewriter at Goodwill. Eight Bucks. Still on the search for a great traveler. Fixing the other one. In time I plan on traveling around and laughing and holding a free school type of class on spontaneous prose, where those who attend will take a picture with a Polaroid picture, and then after hearing about the basic tenants of my sampled version of spontaneous prose, sit with the typewriter and crank out as much as they feel, then read and laugh and sleep and dream at night. Romantic idealization, yes, sometimes this is what I do. K. Bye
Adventures In American Writing 
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