Polemical tirades are fun. The whole spitting in the eye of God thing. Rocking the boat. Fucking Galileo, man!!!
Let’s tip the whole thing over.
But the problem is, it’s too easy to be outrageous these day.
Being outrageous is pedestrian, stuff for reality television, the boob tube. Atheists are best sellers. Hardcore rap is so…90’s. Andrew Dice Clay is a novelty act. (I think he always was) G.G Allen is dead.
Sure, I could draw a cartoon of Mohammed, but I don’t know what Mohammed looked like.
And everybody already hates Bush.
I’m getting older too.
I’ve realized that drinking isn’t as fun anymore, and that’s depressing.
It’s not that it’s not fun; it’s not wild anymore. There are no more forties in the hills above Sepulveda. There’s no staying up all night rapping. There are no boisterous proclamations about future artistic accomplishments with fellow starving artists.
It’s contained. Polite.
Now it’s all politics and talk of houses.
I guess the only thing I have left to rage against is myself.
So I wrote a haiku.
We traveled these roads
Disemboweled Hindu cows
On 2 Demerol
Not sure what it means.
Not sure what the blind bluesman is hollering about.
Not sure why I’m up at 2:43am, writing haiku.
Something about the futility of trying to spark a fire, but really, about how I’m growing soft in the fire. Maybe it’s true. Maybe I hate Bob Dylan for wanting a picket fence, because I really just want a picket fence.
But still, late at night, there’s that craving to create, to set the sail and see how she blows.
You start typing and after awhile something comes out, hopefully.
That’s my yearning… to keep yearning.
Now someone pass the Turning Leaf.