All this bunk
Taking, “Who am I?,”
And the search
For an identity
To a level of manipulation
Much greater than
The random assigning of categories
Based on skin tone,
Financial status, or
How about our identities be based
On the goodness of our hearts,
Not the statistical analysis
Of our collective genetic gumbo?
Just be you,
Do no harm,
Let that be you legacy.
Problems arise when the cliques compete.
Bands and sports somehow have a natural rivalry.
Crazy, given that they represent the same school.
When sports are huge and teams are winning
The band becomes an afterthought,
When sports are small, the band seizes the moment.
The effect of the up and down
Makes it hard for the community,
Sports being the high profile player in the equation.
It’s easier to support sports
Identifying with the winning and losing
Is easier than appreciating the intricacies of music.
So when the teams are down
And the boo birds settle down
Support goes where the sounds seem sweeter.
Music, the domain of so many non-athletes
Takes over the top spot,
Leaving sports to mull the depths of a losing culture.
Jealousy ensues, petty differences spring up
And the small town mentality
Gets divided in the inability to figure out who it is.
Is it sad identifying with television characters
Where every quality of the actor
Seems to be a reality of life?
Perhaps, the fantasy of who they are
Matches the dreams of who we wish we could be
All too perfectly.
Lost in the bleakness of Hinterland
Or in the steamy heat of Havana,
I get these guys.
Ah, enough of that
I am who I am,
They are who the writers intended them to be.
Is it true that Jesus
Never performed miracles
In his hometown
Because people believed him
To be the son of a carpenter
Instead of the son of God?
I don’t know,
I heard it somewhere.
Maybe on Sirius,
But I can relate
What others believe.
I slither and slide
From one persona to the next
That I barely believe
In who I am and
Leaving wasted bits of me wherever I go.
I want to walk
In an armor of my own
Able to deflect
The judgments and complaints
Of others who seem happier
When I am what they want of me instead of who I am.
It’s not easy wanting that.
I take the stones, protecting myself with sticks
That don’t do anything
To change the doubts I have
In my abilities
To find balance in the expectations of others.
Still I try to change,
To no real effect,
Because I’m just the son of something
In the minds of all who cast negativity my way.
Maybe I’m just a son of a bitch
Who is destined to piss people off.
Rolling through the halls
Of historic buildings
Absent of any life
No urban renewal
No philosophical reform
Only the strength
To jump ship
To run away
Leaving the building’s soul in limbo
The magic could return
Only if blind spots
Can be found
In the passing