The Occidental Tourist / Neither Do I
The other night I played Russian Roulette with a firearm loaded with thoughts and dreams.
Pragmatic observation tells you it misfired.
The sooner I try to end the pain, the longer it stays.
But the world around me claims that it ain’t my time to die.
Wise others say otherwise.
Aquarius I am, water bearer to the world.
Why then am I thirsty?
Dehydration, I hear, ain’t the most pleasant of ways to go.
Glad I got some quarters in my pocket ’cause Lipton Brisk iced teas sell for 25 cents in Hell and I’m gonna need some.
Thank God.
God thinks. In God we trust.
But God doesn’t trust us. Just us.
I wouldn’t either.
Angels and Devils look alike to me.
Plus, the words “halo” and “horn” both begin with the letter H.
Hmmmm….
Driving.
I switch lanes accidentally between the occidental lane and the lane on the right.
I parallel park between good and evil.
But I still seem to get a ticket.
I’m always a little bit over the line.
So I traded in the ride for a pen and some paper.
But what good is that gonna do?
Is jotting down some words on a flat piece of processed wood gonna make my life better?
Writing poems to myself or others supposed to save me? Reverse the downward spiral my life’s taking?
Don’t think so. So don’t think.
2 heads are better than nothing. And I mean nothing.
2 heads only equal twice as many headaches and mental clutter.
I can do bad by my damn self.
I go off the beaten path, hoping to blaze a new trail of innovation.
Ending up only in the Neverglades with empty tanks of gas, momentum, and inspiration.
Incineration would probably be the best thing.
Might as well. I’m already burnt out.
From thinking how I could better society in my little way.
But trying to better society in little ways has the same effect as trying to raise the water level by crying in the ocean.
Or blowing into a hurricane so that it’ll change directions.
This blows. The list grows. Dismiss woes.
Society laughs last and loudest at those who don’t matter.
And since my progress regresses, this poem is really worth less than the piece of paper it’s written on.
Matter of fact, the only fact of this matter is that this whole thing doesn’t matter. Neither do I.
Trying’s like dying.
And I just don’t care anymore.
// May + Sept. 16, 2003 //
Think Ink|Thinq Inq 