I don’t like any of this. I never asked to live. I only do. And I’m back at, IT…
Shit. My Back hurts from the long walks with empty talks with the long list of who gives a fuck.
I feel like I’m already dead and I smell like it, shit, and I’ll say it again…
My… Back… hurts.
Out of everything and I’m losing the focus to….and I’m alone at the airport and just about man, I’m almost out of caring about holding myself together.
The concourse A and B and whatever, and what you looking at I roll my eyes at this asshole in his military uniform who purposely doesn’t get out of the way when I’m running late to the end, and I feel like I’ve been in a war, and not a great war, an ugly war, a war where the savage fight the savage, and it’s so dumb, and it’s never about anything REAL, other than to revenge the life of THE DEAD, with ha, more DEATH, and this is the history of what we get for allowing this idiotic savagery to persist for profit margins to show off at shady bars so some us can you know, FUCK.
And so you could be right, that maybe I’m just in a bad mood. Well human, it aint no maybe, I AM. I’m ready to push over a vending machine, just to do it.
Down the hallway wanting to eat whatever smells good but not having even enough money for anything they sell here. Calling cards and cell phone broken and computer, dead, dead, everything is dead. Dirty and waiting and back, just back, and how the hell did I even get back? Why the hell am I even back? I don’t like a single person anymore. Why? I don’t have a fucking clue. I think it’s because…
Smoke and a bird bath and now I feel better with a nice long, brush of the teeth, a shave and another cup of joe, and don’t drink the well kid a guy says as I say OK I WONT but he pushes me aside and asks the person if there is any left or did the boy drink it all?
Always the boy around primates not human men, and Maybe I’ll feel better after I smell better. Who knows, my fingers hurt. I’m dying. It sucks.
Train stations and bus stations and tracks, miles, runways and cold summer forests. Always landing and always running, walking, panting like the American mutt I am.
Always…damn…I lost it.
And I’m tired and this is my art, and what is it? Living, that’s all. Doing the tap…tap… tap.
The tap… tap… tap. Writing and staying away from the madness that is said to be the artist. I’m doing the tap… tap… tap. And it’s enough and everything is fine and sometimes my stomach doesn’t hurt anymore and thank goodness because I thought I was going to throw up.
I’m beginning to come down with the flu of the sickness that the artist can have, the monster in your soul that is always there but sometimes rips an absurd bloodshed of nonsense out of your chest and consumes his entire being. (Or her, I suppose)
It’s a fine line and you can easily become angry and I don’t have time for too much insanity, just a tad, and walking on a new planet is never easy, and I feel like I’m discovering new frontiers every day I wake up.
TAP… TAP… TAP and…and…and OK…and ALRIGHT I’m HERE AND waking-up. I didn’t ask for any of this. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that I’m BACK YELLING…TAP OH MAN…and I’m BACK DOING THE TAP… TAP… TAP.
Having that manic, that mad man mind, and sometimes I could tear this ship apart and rage against the existence I have….slow, down.
Settle down, and you’re back, back on earth, feeling cold toes and hi how are you and no man, I got nothing. Can I sit down a second? All these questions and who am I, nobody important.
Another stray man walking out of the airport looking like he has to be somewhere, and maybe I do, but I forgot, about, the tap, and the, this, the tap, the…the…the…
THAT; the sound of everything, of society, of you and your kids, and your machines and your feet, oh the clicks the clacks the tap… tap…the tap; the everything of all of this back on the ground and I could live in the air on a plane. I could. I really could live in the clouds, and what? What would I have to write about then?
Slowly down and kicking my feet like a drummer I’m dancing inside but it looks like I’m walking and a nice gentleman’s head nod, and oh man, why hello world, I knew you wouldn’t destroy yourself while I was gone. You had to wait to go all savage when I landed.
Cops chasing that guy, that guy again, and he’s a different guy and who knows what he did and who knows who’s dying and lying, people suing and singing and asking… asking…
Everything is down here, and down, among the humans, the ones like me, and that smell, that sound, that pain…
Old man river over here…
Me. In a matter of a couple of years becoming Walt Whitman, only not really like anybody, not even close to any writer or man or mutt of a self-made man who’s on a daily basis scolded by the great savages of history, old news and dirty laundry, millionaires now billionaires now trillionaires now impoverished bank tellers.
And then, and then…TAP and TAP, and I’m back always back, down and landing, dragging, feet, one, the other, FOOT MOVE DAMN YOU DON’T CRAMP UP ON ME NOW. There’s no time for pain and I have to get to the hotel. Back to wherever. No. Please don’t cut me. Alright sure go and steal my seat.
Face against glass. Hello? Nobody. Alone, always alone with the slow piano melody that Mozart wrote but never told anybody about. It was his song. He had to keep something for himself. They took everything and left him only with what they said he was. And there, I’m here, can we keep our shit together society? Please, chaos could break out at any moment and I probably would be a king.
Slow down and LOVE…
Tap… tap… tap…and I’m driving back to the home that only exists in my mind. I’m really driving in the taxi and now stomach pain back and let out in door open suitcase light smoke, insert paper, smile…
Tap… Tap… Tap.