T for Tom

Everybody Wants To Be Something

Posted in Uncategorized by johnsontoms on February 25, 2010

Everybody wants to be something

And all I want to do is write.

write books,

poems,

inspiring works of fiction or even

just stories.

something to get this madness

out of

me.

They all say,

and by ‘they’ I mean the

“lucky ones”

(whatever that means)

who have jobs,

real

jobs that pay

money,

“Get a job!”

and then I’ll have

money

just like them.

But

I’ve had money.

What

I can’t have is

dragging ass into an office

or factory

eight hours a day to

work for nothing

that does nothing

for me.

That’s why I like to

write.

I used to

get paid to

write

but it wasn’t the same as this.

It was some

jag-off

telling me how

useless the copy was

when

he didn’t understand

that I wasn’t

writing

but dragging ass into an office.

It

kills all of us

slowly.

You’ve all heard

the stories

about Kerouac, Bukowski, Ginsberg, Cassidey,

and the rest

and how they would

hop around the country

washing dishes while writing you’re favorite literature,

purely

as a means of

living and getting

drunk.

But where

I went wrong

was where

they got it right.

The bastards never got an

education,

never once tried to make

a life for themselves

and always lived their life

with color,

day to day

because it’s real easy to not need a calendar when

you don’t have a job or

people telling you what to do.

Now

I’m stuck between the dead and the dying,

not living

as either rich or broke.

I can’t even find

work

pushing carts,

chopping trees,

sorting papers,

fixing lights, scrubbing floors, painting houses, or washing clothes

because

those jobs are for the uneducated,

the immigrants,

the poor,

and the people in charge

of such

menial tasks

laugh every time I show up to

ask for work.

“You can’t be serious, you’re

overqualified.”

And

the jobs I want

tell me to fuck off

(I know this by their silence).

“Son, you just don’t have any

experience.”

FUCK EXPERIENCE.

The people who’ve

spent their whole lives

building a résumé are

DEAD. They don’t have

character

and you wouldn’t call them your

friend,

they marry for status because

money makes them comfortable.

What experience do they have?

Have they ever

climbed a mountain,

made love to a woman,

painted a masterpiece, written poetry, made music for an audience,

or seen the world?

I suppose

those things are for

the vacation time,

because they’ve got it all

figured out

and

that means

daily obligations.

they flail their arms

at people like me,

and then you wonder why

I’m bitter and

drink.

Drinking helps me think,

it makes days longer,

women cuter,

jokes funnier, food taste better,

driving more fun,

sometimes it can give me the winning horse number,

and its a good way to

block out the world

and it’s people

telling me what to do.

Nietzsche said

“smoking is vanity” and while

I’ve got that down pat

I’d like to

argue

that these are the vices

of

the thinking man.

I’ve got much

on my mind.

What

better way

than to make people suffer through

my poetry?

But it worked if

you made it this far.

And for that

maybe,

just maybe,

understand me better.

But to the

“lucky ones”

I’m dead

so I suppose their opinion

is worthless.

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