The Education of the Misguided

The Dude Abides. I take pleasure in hearin’ him say that, Takin’ it easy for all us sinners.

Like Last night- Tonight- I have no money- I haven’t a burning coal of ambition and I don’t understand why I don’t care if I do or not. I wont have a passion tomorrow, I wont have a plan and I wont have a heart throb angel standing over me in my wrinkled sheets whispering the directions of the lost map of life in my waxy ear, I’ll sleep the sun up just like I’ll drink you down and I’ll sleep the sun’s arch away too- just the way my drinking buddies slouch in their chair. Where I come from, its where Mornin’ comes twice a day or not at all. I feel completely restructured though- Like I’ve been rewired- It’s not a completely bad thing that I am a being that could grow stronger and taller each day if I only did not harvest it each night. I try my best to stray; most folks try their best to network. I like being the only two eyes awake between an open bottle and the shivering moon. It makes me feel alive that I’m the only person that’s rummaging through the attic of memories, falsified emotions and chucking out innate knowledge. I do my best at becoming one cold hard and merciless romantic of cosmic funnies.
Yeah, Money would be nice to have obtained, incubate and use as a lure to trap members of the opposite sex, and disillusion them in my web of green and dead presidents. That’d be the life, it it’d be the life for me. It sure looks fun to drink $100 dollar beer, to woo women and friends in with my wallet and not my mind or my heart. I’d love to be that guy.
But I find myself as a rarity, I don’t have the capability and I don’t have the heart space for it. I think life and existence is far better than just being a grand pawn in the game of money making for the makers of money. That’s the tragedy; the being sucked into the machine- being born to the carriers of the disease of inhumane sprawl—Shit out a few kids, build a few businesses, knock down a block or two of some whimpering creatures homeland and be a distracting savior to those that know no better, to be a militant champion with a suit and tie, coffee stained teeth and finger tips that are callous free. Don’t stop until your empire is built. Instill the barbaric trait in your offspring and so on and so forth. Pretty soon the street you live on has your own name on it and the corner street has your grandmother’s last name. Mission accomplished.
Nobody seems to care or notice, not at this pace of life, that’s why it’s called the Rat Race because we’re a bunch of sick and disgusting creatures that run with ambition but without a thought in our minds. Every thought and desire and ambition was given to us by our sour ancestors and unfortunate predecessors. LETS MAKE THE WORLD BETTER we think, a handful of versatile solutions to everyday living but the choices we choose weather it be diesel or olestra, and we’re only cutting our lives shorter while we plunder away searching for longevity through our worst attributes, our personal collisions between what is real and what is perceived, we’re nothing but wicked astute maniacal consumerist nomads that repeatedly buy our life piece by piece from those that pay us the money to do so, after work, that is.



Tension
Tension
Tension it's all that I know
I got tension in my classroom
I got tension in my courtroom
I got tension and it's everywhere that I go

And If you’re not all liquored up from the new dream from Uncle Sam, and you do in fact, live off of the grid, where does the happiness come from? Chances are you’re nothing but the ghost of someone’s pre-loved ambitions and ideas. So this is it- You’re a failure to the creator, and a failure to those that created you.
So imagine this, you’re on a dirty color-less street, wandering around, with no direction, your fists clench in your empty pockets as you squint against the dusty wind- you’re skipping the cracks in the sidewalk, so you’re basically walking in the brown, dead grass.
Scott Lucas bellows, “It’s no fucking Fun” in your eardrums. And you love it.
Your presence is to others is a distraction from their work, money and bills, you’re an open tent freak show they don’t have to shell out the ten cents to, the migrant freak show that has been left behind in mind body and spirit. Does that mean he’s confused, sad, angry and or violent? No, not necessarily- early on in the days when Amerika was still wet behind the ears, you would be called a rambler, or a tramp, possibly even a HOBO, meaning more than just a vagrant- but HOmeward BOund- the lives of the American civil war soldiers in the mid 19th century, those that were retired or free to leave, they were homeward bound, but many had no home to retreat to- they had their American issued HOMEWARD BOUND patches, and when they were not hassled or reprimanded for their parasitic gaze, so they had conversations like the whimpers of whipped dogs and they gazed out onto the landscape that was sculpting the lives and dreams of those that were fortunate enough not to have to fight in a war against neighbors, cousins and friends. The birth of freedom for so many was also the birthright of so many more, to live a life of self hatred, mental collapse, silent integrity and rich prophecies with calloused hands and dirty knees, in a sense, the trial between solitary confinement amidst freedom; and the age old yet newborn wisdom of sad individualism. The civil war is over and has long since been, but for some that gene has been passed on, it’s not the land and property we’re at war over, it is simply ourselves. The war is quite the struggle, though it does not exist around me, it exists only inside me. The fight between the ideas inserted through the contraception of advertisement, the struggle of finding myself in a refurbished society of Gods and day old literature. A sucker is born every minute, or so they say. But so is God and his new Glam-image.
The country is young, in a weird mathematical factor, yeah, definitely young factor, and at the state of it, we’re probably leading each other to a nameless grave the way we poison each other with greed and constitutional distrust, we all should know by now, life makes no sense, we should abandon the lives of the sprawling maleficent fire breathers, and learn from the penniless hobos of salvation. You may step on us, you might not care how we’re doing, or what we love, but your ambition may soon aspire to tip your hat to the mutant knowledge we pass out every day scribbled on cardboard trash with the coals of dead cigarettes. I am redefining the term of ‘Hobo’. I am homeward bound—I’ll run myself into the ground with zen and peace and all that shit before I go down in flames from the catastrophe of the shallow burning oil wells from the etiquette of today’s modern chimpanzee in his three piece suit grappling the concrete jungle that opens at 6 am every morning and closes at 11 pm every night. I’ll be that Hobo that constructs marvelous humanity in each sip of coffee and imagination, I’ll be the lonesome hero that dies every night I lay my head on that railroad bed, I’ll be that scalawag in dirty jeans whistling at the bus stop, and I’ll not be the ghoul that was built in reconstruction of the average Amkerikan male- my bones were not built in this body to give shape to the soul that delivers the forthright appearance of modern art, monotone and monotheistic.
I am a Hobo of belief, spirituality and imagination- and the beauty of it all is that I still have no fucking clue.