Recently, after another one of my annoying bitching and whining facebook posts, an enduring and endearing buddy of mine chastised me for “protesting” too much. Now, since this buddy of mine and I have known each other for so long and since we are such good friends, I know that she was just teasing me and giving me a much-deserved ration of my own sarcastic medicine since she knows how much I love that type of bantering and dialogue.
But it got me to thinking…
And I know what you’re thinking…
“Uh oh…here he goes again.”
Yup…you’re thinking correctly.
Here I go again.
Her comment got me to thinking:
Do I protest too much?
I wonder, when the one or two of my three regular readers, one of whom is me, read all the BS that I spew out, do they, do you, in fact, think that I am nothing but a complaining whiner who protests too much?
Maybe I am regarded that way by them, by you.
But in my mind, when I consider not only my condition, but the condition of my country, the condition of my irrational planet, I believe that I do not nearly protest enough.
In my mind, if protesting was a sport, I wouldn’t even make the team.
Just consider what I have to consider:
My eyes are failing.
My liver is considering failing.
(I know, I know. I’m pathetic.)
My country’s politics are failing.
My country’s economy is failing.
My country’s demeanor and personality is failing.
My entire irrational planet seems tired and wobbly and utterly and dangerously exasperated.
No, in my spasmodic mind, I do not think I protest too much.
In my distorted and blurred view, there is so much more protesting that I could, and will, do.
While I know that when I tally up the sum of my life and consider its total score, I have so much to be thankful for and proud of…
And I am thankful for my life…
And I am proud of it…
And, in total, I am thankful for my country…
And I am proud of it…
…still, just because I was lucky enough to be born who I am and in the greatest country that has ever existed on this irrational planet, that doesn’t mean that I am absolved from having to try to improve either myself or my country.
And we all know that to improve something, you don’t need to focus on what is all ready working, you need to focus on those areas that are in need of a little tweaking, those areas that are mis-aligned and under lubricated.
And we all also know that it is the squeaky, protesting wheel that is usually gonna get the oil first.
So be assured that I certainly intend to be one annoying whiny squeaky protesting wheel from time to time, especially since my illness(es) has given me the freedom to do so.
All I ask from you is that you help me supply the oil in any amount and in any way you can.
*
Rise Up!
It’s the bottom of the ninth.
We’re down and in desperate need of a two-out rally.
So what are we waiting for? Should we go
for the win and swing for the fence?
Or should we just drop our bats,
grab our crotches,
and wait?
Just wait for someone else to come along and bat clean up?
Just wait for them to come along and clean up all of the shit
our silence has created?
Should we wait?
Just wait for the president and the congress and the
governors and every other sleazy politician to knock
the dirt out of their spikes and lead the rally?
Or should we, instead, wait for Wall Street and the
chambers of commerce and the boards of directors
and the unions and even the goddamn Junior Achievers
to stop sucking each other off and let them lead the rally?
No.
I’m tired from waiting,
and I’m sick from feeding on bullshit
and shallow metaphors.
It’s time for movement.
It’s time to say to hell with our condoning silence
and rise up.
Hey you!
Yeah, you in the corner with the pencil.
You, the unassuming bard whose verse speaks in whispers.
It’s time for you to rise up and write the words that need
to be written.
It’s time for you to sharpen your pencil and to tear
and thrash at the page till it bleeds and screams out
in desperate fury.
And when your words are read the readers are shocked
and angered and filled with such passion and rage
that nipples harden and balls retract in their sacks.
So rise up!
Check your zippers and march.
Listen for the rhythm ‘cause no one is leading
and no one is following.
There’s just us.
You Me Her Him We, Each confused and disoriented but
Each coming together and marching in one
Throbbing Mass of Poetic Fervor.
So rise up!
Rub the crap from your eyes and focus.
Breathe deeply then grab hold of today and straddle it.
Dig in deep with your knees and spur the bitch till it bucks.
But be ready ‘cause when it bucks it’s gonna buck good.
And when you fall and taste the dirt don’t spit it out.
Taste it!
Chew on it and swallow.
Because that’s why we are here:
to taste the flavor of today
and determine what ingredients are missing.
So, if your heart’s not pounding
and your hand’s aren’t shaking
and you’re still just sitting on your ass
waiting for someone else to do your work,
then close your notebook and break your pencil
because you are dead.
But if You feel the Passion
and if You feel the Rhythm,
then know that it is You who will do.
You who must do.
Yes, You.
But first You must Rise the fuck Up!
