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4 de Abril, 2007
Greedom on the March
Categorized under Corazón , Palabras , Poesía , Signs of the Sixth Sun | Tags:
POTENTIAL PRESIDENTS are discussed like well-produced flicks making the circuit and the appraisal of their smashing box-office numbers leaves me just as cold. As with many other facts that aggravate my spirit, I am often told these realities are nothing to be overly-excited or angry about. This defaulted drool over empty ticket spools. This focus on the shell. This pretty path to hell. And this is how it has been since I first began meeting human society and talking to people about things. Not much has changed. Most seem to have "gotten over" ideas that lay flat in my path like a dead truck sideways. They have pushed their qualms aside, or scooped them up in their ambling toward whatever chunk of the pie they think they can afford. But it's a dream, you know. It's a dream, this shining city. The beatific glow is but flames.
And what are your choices when you wake to find yourself in a burning house that is surrounded by a moat?
We save the true lessons for the storybooks. We box them up into books and maxims and magnets for the fridge. But we keep living and giving our daily might and hard-earned money to the machine, the one we claim is eating out the heart of the world, the one we claim is taking us on a ride to places we don't want to go. We cordon off brave and clear ("idealistic") thinking unfettered by personal fear for security in the safely denigrated gates of adolescence or academic curriculum, and soon after we are expected to Get With It, make the grade, hate the game, train to be played.
Success and worth always being measured by barrels or billions of "dollars" or potential for dollars—from the mouths of the system's "controversial" or "subversive" gadfly-shills to the values or goals by which our public lives are framed, to the incessant vapid and vicious insinuations of the television, to the phantasms held up by all our media as rewards. This land of surface, this agenda of superficiality, this drive for shorter walks, shorter rinse times, shorter wait times, shorter cook-times, faster return, quicker results; less calories, cheaper more commonplace cosmetic surgeries, this goal of The Cush, this nation where the Symbol supercedes the Essence and we are stumbling about with half-truths stuck in our gullet, big diamonds hanging from our knuckles, nutra-sweet bullets fired into the unsuspecting children, collective capitalist claws ripping down the real world.
I despise the American measuring stick, keep the shit-flecked, high-gloss, barbarous tip far from my confident wandering step. I'm on a path that eventually scales the outskirts of all forgotten outposts, letting time fly in a beautiful way, receiving my news from an angle unnamed, a trajectory that escapes even the camoflouged and clever redactor's blade.
Any approval or reward bestowed by the poisoned hand of American culture ought to be immediately rejected, or at least thoroughly vetted for destructive messaging or corrosive materials. The truth remains far from the frames of our well-paid messenger-pundit-slaves. It's still in your eye, your palms, your heart, your mind. It's free, it's always been in you and me, and that's why we've been taught to hate and fear and alter and suppress and control the natural self. To disguise or override it with the newest product from the Whoremaster's shelf.
So...does swimming come natural? Or do you have to learn? How long until even the bushes and lawn burn?
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kick it, ése.