I’m smoking on the balcony in the chill, Oklahoma night.
See, smoking is banned in my building.
But sub-woofers aren’t.
1600+ miles and hip-hop bullshit follows. ¹
My downstairs neighbor practices for his rap-yodeling career as his lack of consideration coupled with my dearth of blood-borne nicotine has me contemplating painting his walls an intriguing shade of brain with a tire-iron.
I continue to like the place but it reminds me that I’m still stuck in “the land of the ‘me'; home of the slaves”. ²
Where everyone seems to fuck everyone else but nobody really orgasms.
Where we’re all just left with that stupid, fake grin on our faces; muttering “Yeah, it was good for me, too”, when we really mean:
“G☼ddamn, what have done with my day life?”
No wonder I fell – head first – into the ‘sphere.
I mean, damn, we’re all freaks, weirdos, malcontents and outlaws.
But at least we stop for a second, if only once in a while, to ask:
“Is this really how things should be?”
We’re the ones that, during the two-minute hate, just hold what we’re supposed to be throwing at the boogeyman-of-the-day, stare at it dumbly – like a dog whose master brought a new baby into the house – and wonder why no one else is wondering.
Regardless, flawed as we all are:
I’ll take us over the frothing masses any day.
¹ = I’ve already been accused of being racist for hating rap/hip-hop, so save such moronic nonsense. Besides, I can name more black musicians than you can, if you try to call me out; Delta bluesmen taught me everything about guitar-playing. Thus, if anything, defame me for “co-opting black culture”.
² = Is it wrong to quote my own work?
My slow-going, in-production memoir?
Fuck it; I’ll spray what I like on my own digital wall.
PS – This post’s title and song were chosen very, very intentionally.