The Last Sane Man on Earth
The last sane man on earth is seated in the red leather caress of a jazzish lounge, taking his sweet time. He knows he’s of the rarest breed and what to do but drink his time away? Up above on the street’s a massive body moving and O how they’re rushing to the train across the platforms together, mashing on the busses, ambling along the busy shopping hour streets, and the pointing ‘oh!’ ‘ah!’ taking pictures on every corner and plucking flowers to press in books and scaling mountains to stand triumphant to the sun’s face and forging memories of the times they’re had, their crackers and tea while listening to an old vinyl slab, lying on the street in the rain, fashnin’ dreadlocks with ginger fingers, home-brew mulled wine with family by Christmas, stumbly drunk young ones hitting streets with heavy feet, feelin’ beautiful with a coffee and a trip to the antique store, blind dates, the hard and heavy work down in the ditches, wiping the oil and sweat off their hands, How crazy! what are they all DOING? The last sane man has no soapbox to humbly sit upon and tell them it’s all it’s just one great big LIE WHAT ARE THEY DOING with all of those late-night Godzilla flicks, cherry soda under leafy oaks, traveling to Europe, kayaking down the Ganges, picking teeth after a steakhouse meal, bird-watching, cloud-gazing, canyon-walking, hitch-hiking, endlessly staring at screens, building futuristic robotic companions, painting landscape, O God (were there one) what the FUCK are they all doing with their lives?! Last sane man never gave it much thought, too dumb with his drink to care or speak on the matter, no use, no use, and so he’ll sit here forevermore and ease out to this wailing bop some old bitch named Kerouac raved on about (crazy fool no doubt), because somewhere in the music’s some sad happy wail and holler wherein there’s a distant memory that amidst all of the insanity of sound something slithers through like someone he loved had tapped on a bedroom window and just started to come through the curtains before having second thoughts and climbing down and away and it was so close, as though on the cusp of truly knowing what it’s like to be one of THEM O man could he ever know, that last sane man on the earth? What makes him that way? We could never know, we’re too busy with our hopscotch tango social livesand just clamouring to keep the whole situation down pat so we maybe will have a sense of certainty that we just might not die alone and sad and broken and dirty and wishing that something more was said by the end of it all GODDAMNIT what fools, last sane man on earth, what fools are we to even wonder for a split hair of a second what you could be thinking about, undoubtedly the calmest thoughts anywhere this side of the Latin quarter SEE SEE right there you’re going off again on some wild and crazy adventure when you could just seat yourself down like the last sane man of EARTH and know what it’s all about like some dumbshit saint of the mind knowing every date and time and age and seeing dividing lines, intersecting lines, criss-crossing and double-crossing lines, wise and old to the world and so young because of it yes yes, last sane man on earth knows what it’s all about. And he knows why we don’t care about what he thinks and so we let him keep seated in his red leather caress of an armchair drinking haphazardly into a shallow grave of jazz.