For me, for an increased number of us, it’s just the same old shoe, you know?
In case a few gold plated drunks at the very tippiest top of the elite food chain, peel their eyes open after a hangover and are threatened by any horrendous twinges of guilt, before they begin enjoying the days and juicy privileges..earned from the broken backs of our fathers and sealed by the tears of our mothers.
I don’t mind offering a little assurance for them.
Since we never see them.
Although we are obligated to jump when they say “jump” and die whenever boredom gives them the hives.
This kinda, sorta prose is just for them and only for them.
In case one fails to understand that EACH one of us (whether as the damagers or the defeated) ..have never and will never count.
When the panic subsides and you’re left to wait for the UNs next “clever” surprise or another dead neighbor to get hauled down the street , the red and blues screeching-well, I suppose “screaming in pure delight” serves as a better term.
Ya, old shoe.
When your father kinda sorta just stands there while his wife expresses in smacks to the face what her drunken fury cannot. Although he was strong enough to serve in trenches and boom out orders throughout years’ worth of drills.
A tough guy..too meek to step in and maybe kinda give his six year old girl a break.
Old shoe.
When you’re forced to listen to the hoots and snickers of some fat assed child baboon, in the desk behind you,
keep on..
and keep on..
And keep on chanting how much of a “fugly dork” you are..although you weren’t under any other impressions of being anything else.
Thanks to the ever present and ever playing messages from the “safe” confines of home.
Wondering why and wishing to escape the snarls (from the same baboon) over what a whore “yo mama” is..because you know, much better than anyone else, just how much yo mama hates you anyway.
And silently snarling back, in your head, that you wish the bitch was dead anyway.
(Although that baboon will be one of the faces anxiously peeking out of the windows , on the street you both live on, one day soon enough…because you actually explored that “option”. And thankfully failed.)
Wondering why the fat assed baboon, class princess and whatever other beasts need..NEED..to keep lodged up your ass..if they hate you so very much.
When they could have easily continued stroking one another’s tails, without wasting a single look thrown your pathetic way.
When they can keep clucking and gurgling that high-pitched nonsense..which you so proudly pulled out from the creative depths of your “superior” humps.
When they can keep on keeping one another fully fed and satisfied with whatever “popular” bullshit they need to manufacture. Impressing whatever ape, weasel or ferret serves as an honored member of their dumb assed clan.
When they can leave you alone…but don’t.
Old shoe.
Even with the macabrely “amusing” parallel of having the German accent of your mother growl and sneer at you, letting you know you look “too black”, drunkenly, mockingly punctuating it by calling you an “ape”..in case you were too busy weeping to hear that important news.
Although, you never hear any of those declarations when both she and your father are making those late night visits to your bedroom..to satisfy whatever perverse appetites, I ( and millions more) will have to assume that your loyal media minions mainlined through their broken and hard veins.
Yup. It all comes back to me. Those days. Because they look and feel like These days.
As I’m sure it does for millions of us.
More of us…as You keep on crafting this world into that “better place” You keep spinning about.
And keep sprouting hard-ons over how wonderfully decrepit each generation has turned and is turning out to be.
That is, if you’re not busy copping joy over which pick of our litters you get to feel up.
Ya, it’s old shoe, Honey. This old love story concerning You and Us.
Us..
Unable to hear one another. For now.
Unable to see one another. For now.
Unable to do much of anything but stand there..while you perform whatever jigs popes and bored “richer than God” folks do.
As we stand here…wearing that ragged old shoe.
Until we don’t.
Anymore.
Ramsy's Joint 