When something goes wrong
blame it on God.
When something goes right
blame it in God.
When a baby is born
blame it on God.
When a loved one dies
blame it on God.
Blame it on God
blame it on God.
Some of us get God
the rest of us get Cake.
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Some of us need kids or find God.
Some of us need kids,
or find God,
to straighten out our lives.
Empowerment comes
in many forms,
shapes, and rituals.
The world is full
of newly rich people,
though right now I am not one of them.
And your optimism
that chokes up my thought
is to blame.
Success can’t be found
on the discount rack,
when everyone is buying it.
You can believe
in anything you want, yes
but that doesn’t make it so.
Self help comes in many forms,
all of which are from within,
without a price tag.
Open your fucking eyes Tulip,
and figure it out…
It’s natural for the bough to bend before it breaks.
The King’s Sad Song.
The failed King sat on his throne.
His Queen had already fled.
Watching his people die, he couldn’t shake the thought
of who would bring him his dinner tonight.
The chef’s were gone, the jester dead.
As for his Queen, well he could find another Queen.
And no matter how much blood was shed,
his people showed no sign of stopping.
It was nearly a 50/50 split – men, women, and children.
He couldn’t help but wear his grin proudly.
It was until he saw his son beheaded that his grin began to fade.
It wasn’t so much the action of it all but rather the one who’d done it.
Down there, past all the bloody corpses, stood his Queen.
What she was shouting he could not quite make out but it went something like this.
I’d rather slay my own kin than have them carry on your name.
Why had his son been down there with the poor and wild rabble-rousers?
He then took note, that he was alone in his castle. How puzzling he thought.
But this did not bother him too long, for he’d only needed what his people could give him.
A King has no need for the physical person, surely he knew this.
Then at the strike of noon, the King began to sing.
Through the screams and fury and onslaught of ravaged flesh, he sang.
It went something like this.
My God what have you done,
my Lord could you believe,
that there is no helpful soul
to serve me steak and peas.
Drunk in Cyberspace.
Everything, I wanted to do,
slowly drifts away.
Clicking here, now clicking there,
it all just looks the same.
An endless maze, of travesty,
piles on each page.
But I don’t have, the guts or tact
or sincerity to look away.
And each time that, I tell myself
tomorrow’s another day.
The calendar, it flips and turns,
yet I just stay the same.
Consciously, predicting that
in sunlight I will change.
Then by the moon, retracting that
I’m drunk in cyberspace.
If nothing really mattered
then I guess
nothing really matters
and so if nothing really matters…
Then why the hell do I keep on trying to explain?
Why the hell do I keep on
this way?
They tell me thanks, rinse and repeat
all I can do is laugh.
There was a time, when I was sure
there seemed, some way back.
A charlatan, a debutante,
perfection on a screen.
Deeper in, still deeper now
a web of misery.
And by the time, I’ve had my fill
and walking on a cloud.
The city lights, extinguished by
eyelids that do bow.
It’s not a curse or act of God,
that craves some kind of change.
But the terror dreams of darkness,
while drunk in cyberspace.
The cure, the cure is quite simple
the cure, the cure is quite simple
the cure, the cure is quite simple…
But.
A Balancing Act.
Systems.
The idea of systems haunts me as of late.
How everything, big or small,
basically has a system.
Intricacies, that
develop over time,
through trial and error,
and eventually form a path.
A system.
And if properly put to work, should work, right?
Shouldn’t it?
It should, yes, you’re right…
No…It…Wait, oh who gives a shit.
What are you even talking about?
Systems. I’m talking about systems.
Big deal dummy…
Google. Facebook. MSNBC.
Rent is due and you’re stuck thinking about systems?
So to every system there must be a creator.
Like playing God.
It’s no use.
This system is flawed!
All system’s are flawed…
If all systems are flawed,
there must be a fail-safe,
duct tape,
a conscience.
And if properly put to work, should work.
Shouldn’t it?
In a perfect world yes, but this is not a perfect world.
This is not a perfect system.
For many,
this is,
a balancing act,
that in public, seems rational, adjusted,
a well oiled machine, though
further research shows,
a haunting dilemma – difficult to admit –
between two parties,
whom share the same skin.
Who share the same system.
A working hypothesis.
Burning my hand while removing our bagels from the broiler, I hear a voice.
“BECAUSE THERE’S NO GOD DAMN ROOM!”
And I recognize that voice.
That voice is not my own.
It’s deep and fearful.
Hoarse and irrational.
It is the voice of an angry man.
It is the voice of my father.
Then there is silence.
A long insecure silence.
A fearful silence.
And I recognize that silence.
I have been on the receiving end, and that is a terrible place to be.
Catching myself in the act I quickly apologize.
“I’m sorry.”
Only now it is my voice.
It is mild and tame.
Concerned and rational.
It is the voice of a scared child.
It is the voice of a worried man.
And in my mind I’m thinking, please believe me.
Please for the love of all that is holy.
Believe me. Believe me. Believe me.
Because what I meant to say – while burning my hand and channeling the blame to whomever(the loved) was in firing range – was, “because I’m the idiot who didn’t think twice before touching a hot pan.”
It’s my fault.
Not yours.
And now I’ve got the scar to prove it.
Through outwardly and publicly expressing concern and or contempt for one’s actions, said party, will reject the path of his predecessor in order to lead a gentle existence.
It’s a working hypothesis.
Words Of An Average White Male 