Mexican American

As always there are some criminal types making their way for the Mexican border, the border of freedom from the clutches of the federal government. Freedom from the shrapnel and drone of the media wars ages over the airwaves throughout the 20th century. Angel voices singing of blue caribbean seas melting the mental ice of New York City in the middle of February evenings. Media has a strange attraction, some of my fondest memories were the hours spent in front of the television with my friend Calvin reciting the ad men's designer jean jingles.

The jingle bells of Gimbel's, A&S, Macy's and who didn't want to be a pepper back in those hazy days gone by. I for one didn't because before stopping foot into my first psychology class in college I learned the value of classical conditioning. Every saturday afternoon my brother and I would sit around the television in the living room scaring the living shit out of ourselves while watching old Hammer vampire films starring Peter Cushing. Dr Pepper was the sponsor of the afternoon fang fest.

Once again however the colour blue comes to mind, images of jeans, veins, music's most noted shade and the blood of the aristocracy all form a pel mel confounded galaxy of tapestry. These are the things that come to vacant minds as we all sit still late into the evenings sharing communal algorithms with Bacchus and Persophone. New mythologies for a new age.

All of these things that I saw are all gone. These are the shadows of a time that only exist in mysts of dusted wings. There are times when I have been forced to realize that many of my friends (myself included) psychological make up mimic those of serial killers and intermittently postal workers even people who favor girls scout Thin Mint Cookies. In time we may all realize our potential but once again, we find ourselves at a developmental cross roads. No longer the fight of sperm making its way down the vast differences but rather a more economic sell out politics are at play here. Should we become captains of industry or perhaps captains of poetry. We are all cowards under the cells and I fear the worst has an appeal all it's own. Are we to grow up and become our parents? Sucess as they were or not. If so then how will we all as friends continue to share each other's company. Our parents are not and would not be friends.

Mid-life crises at the age of 25! I laugh and cry at the thought we have fulfilled the dreams of every one of our childhood computer science teachers . All at once we are prodigies, eons ahead of our time. As one once wrote, "industrious." What of the notes of the legions of child psychologists however,"the child possesses a morose spirits. A deep inexplicable loss of hope. Blue." The clerics of various faith who must face themselves in the morning questioning their own foolishness. Of us what have they written in the pages of the their holy books uploaded daily to the gods in the heavens, lake beds or salt marshes of venus? "The morose apathy is surely a sign of lack of faith. These children believe more in Pac Man than in the word of the one true god: Adonai, Allah, Buddha, Quez-what's his name (the Aztec god ), Pan, Bacchus, Jesus, Jim Jones, Charley Manson, President Reagan, Jehova, Mr. Ed and god's name be praised."

Once a long time ago I lived in a Brook Farm of the the heart under the leadened verse of our own Oenieda society and it was then that I wrote of watching the promises of childhood burn. The world is at times a dark place but as always it is always half lit. Circumference of the circle is equal in part to the hyperbola of the vertex of thought. Rondo ala turk is the waltz of the human heart. In our communism society also failed we had our Leon Trotsky (Bob) exiled by me the Lenin of the clan. Not a leader but rather a leading figure. Of course there were other Lennins the Lennin of flowering sexuasentuality Mr. Payne, the Lennin of the broad expanse of dream Mr. Murphy the secret order of the lecherous in whose house resided Cesar and Chippy. I loved them all and in turn we all in our love affair grew apart and went our intertwined separate ways.

To the family in Atlanta I bequeath all that I am and extend the most somber apologies for failure to visit. Peter how could I forget Peter who is a fine man as Leslie was never short of reminding us. The chemically aware genius. He however was not above bringing me into secluded regions of his mind.

Sometimes we have to breathe. Sitting up and shopping at home through the cable lenses of desire. The actions of life leave us breathless. From promises that were made in zygote form to the current cries of today. Let me become upbeat despite the fact that I am on my numeroligically 23 beer. I can scarecely remember the days that have just evaporated let alone the boundaries of time lost to play.

Sometimes I wake up at night and realize that I am the ultimate secretary to the consciousness inside of MTV. Sometimes however I wake up with genial mental plans to meet Enzo or Aidan. I meet an ex-lover while walking my son in a victorian carriage around central park. She asks the name and I reply that she knows the name and has always known it. Enzo? No, Aidan. Sometimes I laugh because her eyes crinkle in that little way that I used to love so much. Sometimes an overwhelming devastation of sadness comes over me and I feel like Lou Reed after the apathetic engagement of heroin. Distortion and laughter are your friends.

These are the memories that now make me want to make my way for the Mexican American border. Meet up with an aztec love goddess who does not require blood sacrifices. Love of stationary momentum of the mind. My god is this how Jack started on the road or perhaps how Reznor built Pretty Hate Machine? No matter, I think I'll pack up my books someday into the rumble seat of an automobile and try to discover what lies beyond the confining boundaries of the western horizon.


[Writers] [Birdhouse]