All conceptions of race in the modern world are grounded in predatory capitalism.
–Dr. Cornel West
It’s what I believe. But it isn’t all that matters.
–John Michael Colon
It would kill me to find out life is too good to bear. Especially after all the hiding, ducking and taking cover and not to mention subterfuge I’ve thrown—hijinks and antics I used so as not to get taken by the swell and anyway filter it all, somehow, with drugs and alcohol and even my own anger. What if Life was actually grand and at least pretty fucking cool and the thirty-year sabbatical I took and camp I set up behind a tall wooden fence in the live music capital of the world wasn’t because things were bad but because they were so good I was afraid to face it, lest the other shoe drop or I’m happy? Wouldn’t that be a bitch. I’ve ceded happiness and contentment always seemed like a trap. In my weird life I’m content in my own way even if it’s far and away from all the things they say it takes to be fulfilled. What the fuck do they know anyway? You can die at anytime now, Good Reader, anywhere—from a Walmart to a church and get rubbed out by fate only for being there and in the scope of a white nutter’s automatic. Whoops. Backsliding into it there, ain’t I? It’d be a fool’s errand to try and ration out a new sense of well being than the usual state of oh Shit-panic mode I been in since 15 ain’t it, especially with how close and hot the chipper blades to us whir. I can hear oblivion calling my name most days and most days I can tell it not today Satan or at least be so booked to the teeth my death would be a welcome break. I guess I can’t really reckon it, or try and come through with the new shit—another take on Life that maybe includes some joy and wonder and even love but I do wonder, if not actively and actually know in my gut, that my survival is assured (as much as it can be in these end days of the Final Century) and the coping mechanism of a teenage alcoholic skinhead who’d rather die than stay in the suburbs is outdated, ain’t workin’ and anyway the Life I always wanted is right here and now.
I can’t speak to how big of a fraud I feel like I really am most of the time. Or how I’m not an Artist and the 5 collections I’ve published ain’t shit and neither’s this blog or the 600 I post every Thursday, or the 6-1.200 every month at the Grind, the readings, the letters, the shows and the spoken word stories. It all feels like nowhere, bet, but it’s not the same nowhere as the Township and getting thrown to the concrete by 5 pigs in kevlar or getting my nose broke by some guidos with a mini-slugger in Stone Harbor on a dumb, tequila-filled night down the Jersey Shore. Life is…life. Sure it’s better. Sure I’m still getting beat by the same hounds of Hell. Sure there’s no peace but a little I’ve found and some gratitude that sometimes swells up and doses me with wonder and awe. Everything is so strange now that I’m sober. I can’t call it but I’ll probably make it and no doubt find myself in the grip of anger and my old friend the blues before even tonight is over. It’d be good to hear I’m making it and even better to know.
I don’t know how to tie this in with the suffering of the world. Fact is I’ve been under cover too long. Acted like I didn’t care and now I really don’t. The horrors of the world are so far out from me and everything is. I’m still chasing a dream and it feels fucked and selfish and I’ve no recourse. Even as more innocents are mowed down and the machine lurches forward over my Brothers and Sisters, I am at a loss. What to do with a roiling, rotting world but let it burn? As far as everything being ok, for me at least and the littlest bit over the years, it’s nuts—unreasonable and impossible and against all odds I should be happy and ok with my life. Against. Yeah, that sounds right. Out of the loop and leaning in to the wind. Taking shots like kisses and waiting for something weird and unexpected to turn, a little love to make mend with and something better than this republic of get mine and death worship. Maybe the world needs saving but maybe it should just end. Chances are as it all comes down, Mr. Lucky—your batshit Bastard writer, will have a smile on my fool face. Why should I be happy as everything comes crashing? Why shouldn’t I?
So now that I see where I am
I see race still determines the blessed from the damned
and the greatest of all historical shams
is believing you cannot do something you can
–Erik Petersen
Going for the Throat 