Pardon me for not celebrating Thanksgiving…

The blood was not water, and the water did not go well with bread, and the bread did not cover the smell of fish left too long in the sun, and the sun still shone everyday in spite of the mindless suffering inflicted by a brother on another brother, and the brother who slept with the anxiety of a “failed man dream” woke to abuse his daughter, who herself raised another boy to be a “numb to feeling man”, and that man became Cesar, or he became Buddha, or became a man among men chasing little girls to make them cry by pulling on the pigtails of their innocence, or he became the pig soldier Abu Ghraib or the pig who eats morsels of dignity or the pig who chops off the ears of “want to be students” eating education in school cafeterias, where they lost their fight between innate human expression, and the darker theory of order, taught by black dress madams and spectacles wearing principals “with hands” that find child parts so very interesting, and what is special about what cleaves us, about what binds us, about what scares us, and the monster is in the hard drive, and the hard drive is your history, and your history is a record of your blindness, and your blindness is you as an eyeless person trying to make senses of a too crazy to describe world, and the world spins for you in the same way that it spun for Stalin and to the world there is no difference between you and Stalin so walk backwards around the world, go counter to the time that it measures, until you are back in time, and in the office of Stalin and you are sufficiently brave enough to shoot Stalin, and as the slow motion bullet enters Stalin remember if you change any part of history “you” will also disappear from the official story, ask yourself, am I willing to disappear from the official story in order for there to be a better history?

Freedom came and went, and freedom comes ands goes, and freedom is in a hurry to make an appointment with a person of higher intelligence, freedom is not for the lazy, fat, or crazy, freedom is not for the compliant, and the compliant will be the fish food or the pig food of a lord, or a king, or a prophet, or a messiah, or the next great leader, and that leader will play spin the bottle with your daughter, and that leader will play Russian roulette with your son, and he will always win, and the winner will sire ugly children who will follow in their fathers footsteps, and who will be envied by the lazy and the stupid as the best that the human race has to offer, and darkness will descend again on the civil societies who hopped that this time maybe it was going to be different, but the candy of illusion was too tempting, and the tempting was to tasty, and the tasty was not long lasting, and because it was not long lasting its likely that even the so called son of god died in vain, and that Gandhi will be forgotten as a hero, and that all true hero’s will be text messaged as footnotes in the final book written about tragedy, but the book is not finished, and the hopeful are still lining up at the confectioners storefront window looking in, and begging for a new and better candy to suck on, and sucking is a child’s first pleasure, a pleasure reframed later in their lives as “life sucks” and “he sucks” and “it sucks” and it does all begin to suck bitterly shortly after a father tears the nipple of a mother from the mouth of a child saying “This nipple is mine, and I am its master,” and the master of this nipple then advertises and edifies the shapes of them, and masturbates to tiny pictures of them, and then says, “I the master will make her a slut for having them, so that I can posture that I am not at the affect or a slave to them”, and no one will challenge the irony of his statement, and it will still be that it is the nipple of the world that feeds the world…and if there are slaves, they are “the all of us” who walk the world hungry.

Pardon my anger, pardon my own version of ugliness, pardon my gross articulations, pardon my freefall, pardon my spinning, pardon my falling, pardon me, I am a poet, and I am struck daily by a deep and most profound sadness, the sadness of one who can remember feeling different, of one who thought he was being prepared for a very different world, I actually thought that all people from all places wanted to live in the same Utopia, like addicts to the same measure of love, and the love was the same for one and all, and one and all were working towards the same end, and I believed this until waking from many a rude dream, and I believed this all through my own hell hole childhood, and I believed this until I woke up from my own pleasure addictions, and I believed this until left at the edge of an abyss I fell in instead of finding a way across the chasm of traitorous family obligations, and loyalties, and then I did the only thing I could do I became Poetman, I became 1poet4man, I died, and then I was reborn as a seer, as a theologian studying despair, and the paths around the disasters that are the pitfalls of any journey, so follow at your own risk, for this is the path of the “I eyeopener I”, this is the path of dying, and finding there is no heaven, that there is only a here, that is blistering with the questions… How this “is” is an “is” to be feared….

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One response to “Pardon me for not celebrating Thanksgiving…

  1. Heavy, Deep and wonderful.
    Thank you Poetman for all that you give…
    from your heart

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