I’ve got to stop Making Friends with hobos. Brokeheaded, shab-me-down, tin-reeking browners, with floppy faded coats and swollen noshoe feet. If I continue to lead this ring of freakers, tweakers and public speakers, I’ll become only less than they are. I can’t wind up a hobette just yet –live The Rest of My Life stinking of booze, rustblood, the handrails in the subway. And yet I can’t help talking to them – joining their myriadminded, one-side-blinded conversations to interject my own hostile pent up pensivities. I cannot help Pretending to Believe Them, Taking Down Their Numbers and Promising to Call Them. This is why, despite all my refusings and deboozings and desperate attempts at Sanity, I feel every day that the straw I am clutching with the grubbedup fingers of so many singers, is twisting, breaking, slowly snaking out of my hands. Strand by strand.
Standing on a corner at Two Thirty in the Morning, silently mourning, pretending to twitter, to Avoid the Eyes and Coyly Lie to the blondies I thought dumber than me; watching the back of my head for a Sneaky Little Thief or a Sneaky Little Raping, waiting for the orangely slow bus that never arrives, I came to the realityzation that homeless people are just People who got stranded one too many times on street corners with no one to talk to but themselves. They are street mourners, feet warmers and beat horners with no regard for the sun and the sky, and the lie that is Fun for it’s done.
There is something in Life like a hitandrun, and we’ll always feel guilty about it. There are other times Life pushes bodies down hillsteeps and we engage in a runandhit. Either way, it’s no way to feel. Catch it on reel or leave it for real, and tell me How Happy You Aren’t – a hobo is just ten unhappy steps ahead of you. Or is he twenty happy steps ahead of you? Working your job, living in slob, going to bed every night with a sob, like a beatendown dog – tell me why you keep doing it? Why you gave up your shot at an Edumuhcation? You live in a place where Edumuhcation is highly adored – encouraged and paid for. Where your thoughts are worth something; where They don’t cut out your Cunt for power and fun, and kill your brother for Singing a Song.
Perhaps I’m wrong – perhaps you have gone to a school in the sky where the fees were so high that you were sure Something Fly had to come of it. Something more than a sidewalk shit and a diploma to wipe it. So then tell me why people decide to Do It? Someone explain why every damn day, millions of crazies wake up from their lazies and go to workspacies and let their lives wastey. It has come to my attention that the people in this nation have sacrificed that spice that kept them curry, because they were in a hurry to get Nowhere. Some got Somewhere, some went Everywhere, yet in their hearts not a one can tell you they’ve come to a place where their Peace is alive. Talk to a coalminer talk to a starshiner and talk to your mother and dad. No doubt they will say, when you ask them the way, that life is just Frabjously Bad. So then why bother with It? If millions of people in this world are so unhappy, why are so many people in this world? And why do they tell us we are working to make the world a betterplace when it was a betterplace before we got here? Quick, she says, fuck me so we can have another squaller and we can teach it to be taller than you, because every son must outshine his father and must get farther, and That is why there is no room. Why we must leave this planet for the Moon.
And it can’t come too soon! they croon, like loons, and they swoon over chances and second advances and they work and they work, and they shirk off their lives without questioning why, or where they are going – but all the time in the Back of Their Mind(s) knowing the things the hobos do too. That life is a joke, and whether you’re Broke or in riches; in rags or fine stitches, the prize is the same at the end of the game: when you finally croak, you will live in Hellsoak. And if we all know this – the sadness and badness – then why do we try?
This is why in my mind I cry, because why, and why, and why? And once I stop asking, and stop multi-tasking, and stop trying to figure things out, I will leave civil life for a worriless sprife – simply stand on a corner and Shout.
Standing on a corner at Two Thirty in the Morning, silently mourning, pretending to twitter, to Avoid the Eyes and Coyly Lie to the blondies I thought dumber than me; watching the back of my head for a Sneaky Little Thief or a Sneaky Little Raping, waiting for the orangely slow bus that never arrives, I came to the realityzation that homeless people are just People who got stranded one too many times on street corners with no one to talk to but themselves. They are street mourners, feet warmers and beat horners with no regard for the sun and the sky, and the lie that is Fun for it’s done.
There is something in Life like a hitandrun, and we’ll always feel guilty about it. There are other times Life pushes bodies down hillsteeps and we engage in a runandhit. Either way, it’s no way to feel. Catch it on reel or leave it for real, and tell me How Happy You Aren’t – a hobo is just ten unhappy steps ahead of you. Or is he twenty happy steps ahead of you? Working your job, living in slob, going to bed every night with a sob, like a beatendown dog – tell me why you keep doing it? Why you gave up your shot at an Edumuhcation? You live in a place where Edumuhcation is highly adored – encouraged and paid for. Where your thoughts are worth something; where They don’t cut out your Cunt for power and fun, and kill your brother for Singing a Song.
Perhaps I’m wrong – perhaps you have gone to a school in the sky where the fees were so high that you were sure Something Fly had to come of it. Something more than a sidewalk shit and a diploma to wipe it. So then tell me why people decide to Do It? Someone explain why every damn day, millions of crazies wake up from their lazies and go to workspacies and let their lives wastey. It has come to my attention that the people in this nation have sacrificed that spice that kept them curry, because they were in a hurry to get Nowhere. Some got Somewhere, some went Everywhere, yet in their hearts not a one can tell you they’ve come to a place where their Peace is alive. Talk to a coalminer talk to a starshiner and talk to your mother and dad. No doubt they will say, when you ask them the way, that life is just Frabjously Bad. So then why bother with It? If millions of people in this world are so unhappy, why are so many people in this world? And why do they tell us we are working to make the world a betterplace when it was a betterplace before we got here? Quick, she says, fuck me so we can have another squaller and we can teach it to be taller than you, because every son must outshine his father and must get farther, and That is why there is no room. Why we must leave this planet for the Moon.
And it can’t come too soon! they croon, like loons, and they swoon over chances and second advances and they work and they work, and they shirk off their lives without questioning why, or where they are going – but all the time in the Back of Their Mind(s) knowing the things the hobos do too. That life is a joke, and whether you’re Broke or in riches; in rags or fine stitches, the prize is the same at the end of the game: when you finally croak, you will live in Hellsoak. And if we all know this – the sadness and badness – then why do we try?
This is why in my mind I cry, because why, and why, and why? And once I stop asking, and stop multi-tasking, and stop trying to figure things out, I will leave civil life for a worriless sprife – simply stand on a corner and Shout.
See more amusing pictures of hobos here: http://www.linkognito.com/b.php?b=646
ooooh. i like the changes. they make this one kick a little more ass than it already did. will we be seeing iRevolution on here soon?
ReplyDelete