Plight: The Next Burger
A man who's almost died, he starts making plans. If he's creative he'll start worrying, that he never made anything worth anything. That creative, doomed soul, he'll flail in the darkness for light--for inspiration, obsessed with the act of creation, to make one worthy work. Those who see it coming from far away, they're in better shape. They might be able to squeeze out a few pieces, worthy or not, plinked out like in a carnival shooting game.
I nearly died not too far back, it gave me some time. I started writing.
My wallet filled up, became a thick pain in the right side of my ass, filled up with captured anecdotes, reveries, epiphanies, you name it--I wrote them down on all the various receipts that constantly accumulate: from the atm, for burgers and fries, for toothpaste ...
They say an anarchist, he's one by choice. Did I choose? Can't say, rightly. I might wimp out, drop the cross, you know--might say that anarchy chose me, that it took the form of my environment, made itself god, gave and took, just right, just enough for me to see ... the truth.
The truth is nobody owns me but me, I hold no debt--the state thinks otherwise. The letter I received last week, it had the fancy seal, the print of the state building in red, the courthouse steps smudged a little. That letter, it said I owed the state some, said I failed to file a few years back, they don't seem to know--I stopped filing.
Truth is a funny thing, what we all proclaim to seek, yet none of us want to hear. None of us are perfect, all of us have flaws and imperfections--we just don't want to hear which. To drown out the truth, we buy; we consume. The truth starts to speak and we turn on American Idol, we tune in to CNN: The Extended War on Terror, we flip to the Buccaneers as they take a pounding from the Redskins. We do that hot dance from the 80's: the drive through, through Mickie D's, through Burger King and Wendy's. The slices of cow covered with flame broil flavoring, those salivacious, third-party injections of antibiotics, sustaining us; we can ignore that dirty mouthed truth, if just til the next burger.
I nearly died not too far back, it gave me some time. I started writing.
My wallet filled up, became a thick pain in the right side of my ass, filled up with captured anecdotes, reveries, epiphanies, you name it--I wrote them down on all the various receipts that constantly accumulate: from the atm, for burgers and fries, for toothpaste ...
They say an anarchist, he's one by choice. Did I choose? Can't say, rightly. I might wimp out, drop the cross, you know--might say that anarchy chose me, that it took the form of my environment, made itself god, gave and took, just right, just enough for me to see ... the truth.
The truth is nobody owns me but me, I hold no debt--the state thinks otherwise. The letter I received last week, it had the fancy seal, the print of the state building in red, the courthouse steps smudged a little. That letter, it said I owed the state some, said I failed to file a few years back, they don't seem to know--I stopped filing.
Truth is a funny thing, what we all proclaim to seek, yet none of us want to hear. None of us are perfect, all of us have flaws and imperfections--we just don't want to hear which. To drown out the truth, we buy; we consume. The truth starts to speak and we turn on American Idol, we tune in to CNN: The Extended War on Terror, we flip to the Buccaneers as they take a pounding from the Redskins. We do that hot dance from the 80's: the drive through, through Mickie D's, through Burger King and Wendy's. The slices of cow covered with flame broil flavoring, those salivacious, third-party injections of antibiotics, sustaining us; we can ignore that dirty mouthed truth, if just til the next burger.
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