Saturday, June 14, 2014

The Beatniks

Why did the movie The Source make me cry like a little kid?

Why do I seem tied by some invisible guywire running through my heart and brain and soul to some nebulous thing that I am too young to have ever experienced properly? Why would I rather be sloppily and noisily banging this out on a rattly old Underwood in a smokey basement apartment while drinking Beam straight from the bottle, shirtless and forgotten, connected to the long-dead by some spinning cosmic whirligig, the crushing weight of the soul, the massive thunderstorm of a butterfly's wings.

I will sit here, crucified, in the cloudy afternoon of a lackluster Saturday, buried beneath the worries of having "sold out" and committed to being another cog in The Infernal Machine. My eyes fill and my sobs catch hard like broken pills in my throat. My tears stain my cheeks.

I didn't come this far to lay down now in the path of a boxcar train heading for San Francisco, bearing tobacco and cotton and the misplaced souls of a thousand angry and enlightened chanters who sat in groups on the lawns of State and in dank jazz clubs.

I am a man. I have a heart, and a brain, and endless cock and balls.

I cry. I cry for the things I seem to understand without effort, and for the things I will never understand, even if God Himself has all Eternity in gated Heavenly communities to discuss at length over tea.

I scream. I scream in anger and happiness and lust and proof that I still feel, still count, still make a difference.

I am a man. I am a lover, a brother, a son, a father.

I will break from this moment of Universal Love and Longing, to throw wide my front door and burst upon the unsuspecting world with my sons, tears still drying on my weary face.

Darth Sardonic,

Melbourne, FL,
Saturday, 14 June, 2014


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