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“If a man has an apartment stacked to the ceiling with newspapers we call him crazy. If a woman has a trailer house full of cats we call her nuts. But when people pathologically hoard so much cash that they impoverish the entire nation, we put them on the cover of Fortune magazine and pretend that they are role models.”
-– B. Lester

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 My Story: Creativity Streams

Artby Jeff Bourbeau

Staring at walls, baring it all
before women and them who He says are his friends,
He lays awake paralyzed by desire,
a dreamless world of wanting eyes and worthless “mys”,
such ugly possession by everyone claimed by consumer obsession,
stealing hearts and laying waste to several parts of earth.
He's no different, his desires don't matter,
but he's constantly working to get what he wants,
he's constantly fighting against himself.
And he's constantly crying for someone help.

He just can't clean the sludge of the jack-shit every-day drudge.
The window to his world, it is wicked with sweat-wet fog,
snowballing gravity of entropy clawing at matter,
his cells slowing down, should anything matter?
and worse, the monotony he works himself autonomously into
shovels deep a trench in which to bury the rot
of his wounded legs and cemented heart. ...

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How does He cut the shit and shut the lack of light out of his mind?
He takes a walk and his wasp-sting memory talks;

“Just part yourself from suffering, part yourself from surrounding.
Detach the daring selfish lusty soul, remember the shelf life of these fools,
working so hard to grab at every dollar, then spending it dying repeating the crawl
of society's circling dreams. 'Give me a house and a car and a kid.
Make me famous make me rich, give me power to shove them back.'
But you've never fallen for anyone else's ideas of a good time,
you've always done it your way and found it just fine.
So fuck the dreams of the prosperous white,
You're an anglo with nightmares, no dreams but to fight."

He tastes sand and sings out smiles, he bites his tongue and spills out songs;
Life is superficial hope, but cynicism cannot last.

The ocean's beauty crashes on human emotion,
The sun's smile melts the human heart.

He has no voice, He has no focus for the future,
But he has his dawn-bright intentions, and his own loving ways.

He doesn't know what hes waiting for,
the burden he finds between life, death, and dreams,
imaginings and the creativity streams
that run through the river of his mind,
cutting course over drawn and written time.

Few words, small spaces between,
nothing replaces
inane identity of insane futility.


Jeff Bourbeau is a writer born and living life in New England. More of Jeff's work can be found at: http://jeffhateseverything.blogspot.com/


[07 April 2011]

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