I am not one of you.

I’m no sensationalist, god damn it, and I do not identify with the tabloid driven news desks drooling for more virgin blood on the stakes like a hungry Vlad Tepes clone. Take that shit to the field and burn it like a witch in the heights of the Middle ages. Burn that news desk, baby, burn it to the ground before the Savage Beast comes along. I do not walk among you. I stand on higher ground, looking down on the plains where you hyenas hunt small pray. I am on the boat when you flock around the trawler for fish guts. I want to tell a story, while you want to make everybody believe the Shock-factor is a part of every story. I am not one of you.

The village idiot.

The village idiot has an epiphany
and sees as clear as water flowing down the stream,
just what it is he has become.
He closes all borders,
becomes a tongueless mute and
withdraws into himself like a hermit.

Like a regime hitting its communistic peak,
the idiot rolls out the barbed wire.
Hammering the bolts into the woodwork
just seems like such a good idea.

I am that idiot
I am that tongueless mute
I am the Hermit
I am that regime at its communistic peak
I am the one hammering the bolts into the woodwork
I am that idiot and
I am the one closing all borders.
Let the barbed wire roll into the sunset
Let the idiot walk blindly into the sun
like the idiot he is.

Choking on my own overdramatic melancholia.

It’s early morning and the sun is rolling over the horizon, as if Sisyphus had changed to something new, kicked the dung beetle of the hill and grabbed the glowing ball with fresh enthusiasm. But somehow it’s hard to get out of bed, to put my feet on the rug free floor. Outside a flock of birds has gathered on the wire, singing tunes unknown to any man, songs only found on radio stations unreachable to us all. Flakes of paint are hanging from the sealing, ready to fall to the floor and the autumn is preparing a subpoena for plagiarism as we speak. It tells the story of undone work. If I don’t get up soon, the flakes will cover me up like leaves on a dead squirrel in the park. I sit up and a breeze caresses my feet like a pestering kitten, horny for attention. But I manage. I do get out of bed.

The next scene is filled with the smell of poorly grinded coffee and even though I enjoy the smell, I can’t drink it, I don’t have the will to poor it down my throat. I light a cigarette as the caffeine filled brew is getting cold and my cat starts to play with my feet, still trying to seduce me without any luck. I just sit there, smoking, trying to decide what to do, trying to not sit around all day and when the time comes I slip out of my fluffy slippers and step outside, into the sun, into the sweating heat. I don’t have no place to go really, all I do is walk slowly down the road and try to look casual, as if this stroll is of importance but this pace fools no one, I have nowhere to go to.

The road to nowhere is going slow, dirty dogs bark at my slow pacing, they don’t understand me at all, but I’m not bothered by them, I just have no place to go to. At the end of the dry road I stop and wait, can’t decide what I’m supposed to do, have no will to decide. So instead I lay down under a tree to catch some shade, light another cigarette and search the clouds for hope, for comic strips, for newsworthy bullshit. A car comes by and asks if I need a ride but all I want to do is catch some shade. All day I stay under this tree, entertained by the nothing happening in front of me. It’s hard, actually, be entertained outside my head these days and when my head feels this empty, I mean, what else is there. I just listen to the birds singing, the dogs barking and the cars vrooming by, staying here forever, in this dried up hole of a place, under the tree, with no feelings at all, having made no decision, made no plans. I have nowhere to go, there are no more roads to be walked, no more shades to be sought. This place, where I sit right now, is all that is left of the world.

The Test.

I often ask Maggie if she knows what makes a person crazy. And Maggie says she donno, so I made this here test you see, to help me tell what makes a person crazy. The idea is to ask the folks back yonder what makes a person crazy, 'cause I really don't know myself. But I'm not so sure my test is that good, and the people back home is not that bright, like less educated kind of folks, but that don't mean they can't tell what makes a person crazy. The thing that makes the people from back home qualified for this here kind of test is that they do have a lot of crazies livin' around, you know, just some old farts livin' in shacks and stuff. These crazy people are the ones that the folks back home have to compare with and I think they will be just fine in that department, telling what makes a person crazy.

But I had a really hard time making this here test, 'cause whenever I asked someone what they thought of my test, they just said I was crazy, and I don't wanna be crazy, I wanna be just like everyone else. Being from Hicksville and living in the big city makes it kind of hard for me being like everyone else, but I try, I try real hard but still I don't know how to be like everyone else and not being crazy 'cause I don't know what makes a person crazy. It hurts my feelings is what it does and I don't like that. So this here test is gonna help med determine what makes a fella like me crazy, as they say.

Some people don't think I am crazy, I know that, but they don't count. My mama, she don't think I am crazy. The priest don't think I am crazy and Maggie she currently don't think I am crazy 'cause she don't know what makes a person crazy in the first place. It's just everyone else that keep saying this here hick is a crazy person and I don't wanna be. So this here test is like gonna help me find out.

So when I get back from the hospital, or the institution, I will know a little better what a crazy person is, even if they don't understand this here test that I have made. Even the kind doctors will have to answer them, even God will have to help me with this here test and I hope he can help this here poor fella, 'cause I don't wanna go asking the devil this here kind of questions 'cause I think he is mighty crazy in the first place, burning souls the way he is. No, I put ma trust in God in the end, after the doctors are through with me and then I will know what a crazy person is. But I hope they will say I am not a crazy person. Who wanna be one anyway? Can ya tell this here hick from back yonder, can ya? Well, at least I have this here test with me and that will be just fine. I know it will, 'cause I ain't crazy.