It's Time

It's time to have a conversation with myself, one in which I invoke the great lord of language, and pretend to be one of them ...

It's time to allow myself a little leeway ... some sad setting of my sun that makes no sense to anyone.

It's time to wander the streets of my own sad mind, to stand in awe of what I've become, without striving to overcome.

It's time to ask a really tough question: Am I worthless? Probably, but that's good -- because this life is worthless.

Somebody somewhere said that personhood is not to be taken lightly ... it's a gift. I beg to differ. It's a curse. Promise me (oh my soul) never to fall into a sad state, one in which you give up ... promise me never to abandon the power that rises above you, on a daily basis ...

Shall I vie with Walt Whitman? I think it's time. Here I go:

There is no song better than the one I sing to myself, no life better than the one I lead ... no difference between my own ass and the tree, no time to ask why ... no dalliance of the flesh, no succor of the sad little stream of consciousness that I call Myself.

I staggered into a supermarket in Philadelphia (not California) and I wanted to know why this luscious whore was inviting me to a session. I didn't ask ... much to my everlasting sorrow.

I'm trying to imitate Whitman but I can't -- so I'll be Edward. Listen:

There is no song better than the one that spurts from my loins, and antagonizes the earth with a demand.

There is no song better than this classic little piece of self-righteous bullshit that I spew ... No better song than the one I am typing like a drunken fool ...

There is no song better than the hope for ONE MORE DAY ...

(Thanks Walt)