Weebles Wobble But They Don't Fall Down
It takes a lifetime to break the cycles. If only it were as easy as hitting the "install new upgrades" button. I haven't learned anything new, have only re-discovered the old. Trading old for new, only to realize its all the same.
Standing at the bus stop with an old, old, very old asian couple and a young hispanic woman with a newborn cradled in her lap. The fighting Irish looms over China with disdain lamenting of lands lost. "THIS IS MY LAND YOU ANTI-CHRIST, GO BACK TO YOUR OWN COUNTRY". Who was he and where does he think he is? Standing under the shadow of the 51, making the decision that if he comes back to disturb the melting pot I will have to make the conscious choice of smacking him upside the head with my bag of anti-pespirant, dish-soap and toilet paper; the crowd looks to me for direction. I can only shake my head and roll my eyes, advising them he is deranged in a calm & decisive manner. Everyone nods their heads and casts furtive glances around the corner where he has disappeared. We can still hear him chanting obscenities in his false Irish accent. This is not your land you buffoon. My heart leaks pity for a world in which no one is there to help those that are in need, and bursts with laughter at three adults in various stages of life looking to me as the possible saviour.
My glasses are in pieces. Perhaps if I blow the smoke of my Camel's on them it will temporarily keep them together as it does for me. If only in my mind. But what else is there? My perceptions are my reality.
Thirty-two. I am not the crone. I am the mother.
Standing at the bus stop with an old, old, very old asian couple and a young hispanic woman with a newborn cradled in her lap. The fighting Irish looms over China with disdain lamenting of lands lost. "THIS IS MY LAND YOU ANTI-CHRIST, GO BACK TO YOUR OWN COUNTRY". Who was he and where does he think he is? Standing under the shadow of the 51, making the decision that if he comes back to disturb the melting pot I will have to make the conscious choice of smacking him upside the head with my bag of anti-pespirant, dish-soap and toilet paper; the crowd looks to me for direction. I can only shake my head and roll my eyes, advising them he is deranged in a calm & decisive manner. Everyone nods their heads and casts furtive glances around the corner where he has disappeared. We can still hear him chanting obscenities in his false Irish accent. This is not your land you buffoon. My heart leaks pity for a world in which no one is there to help those that are in need, and bursts with laughter at three adults in various stages of life looking to me as the possible saviour.
My glasses are in pieces. Perhaps if I blow the smoke of my Camel's on them it will temporarily keep them together as it does for me. If only in my mind. But what else is there? My perceptions are my reality.
Thirty-two. I am not the crone. I am the mother.