Beleza

There are some things, on these streets, that no inquisitive eyes should digest. No journalists should tread these slums, nor should the dainty feet of middle class lovers of life who cherish the balance of wealth and adventure their middle class status permits,ever walk these streets. There is some dirt that doesnt wash, blood that runs down the leg, that will never find redemption. Indeed it is a landscape of dirt. We are all equal here, Samuel alongside the chickens and dogs and horse, undisturbed by the vulgarity of coexistence. Night falls and Samuel finds the sidewalk a dog isnt already dying on.

Shots ring out and no one stirs. It could be death, or fireworks, but it wasnt you. This time. Even a tourist dressed down can not hide the smile in his soul, and the lazy eyes-inert after years without use. Time is measured in-time is not measured but maybe youll jack an unlucky visitor. What could be more intelligent than a human alive enough to live moment to moment? Even in my most profound intellectual sessions I am overcome by the intense need to relax my mind and I sleep, deeply and peacefully-and the angels shut my curtains, standing guard.

What is it-what is this life Ive been given. These fortunate days I have to comment on what a golden landscape God painted, eating the chocolate of the earth. What magic made me me-did I pay years of inferno to taste this fruit? Will I? Did I sell my soul to indulge? All the world is like walking through the louvre, admiring the art from afar. I reject my disdain for my own existence, regret is too 20th century intellectual. The introspection itself is a damned luxury. No, love it. Tell yourself the kids can take it and imagine it all a great karma. You are the lyrics to the music Ill write...later later later.

So these are my protest songs....against everybody whose making this world worse than it already is. The looters, the police, the politicians, the dogs the system the bigots, the racists, the robbers the killers. But mostly the people who say these assholes dont exist. I genuinely hate you all. This is my magic-look at me go. I will sing about you all, and paint about you all and stare your bigotry right in the face with my back turned to Gods land. This is the thing I was made to do, cover up your bruises with dirt. Money? What makes you think they wanna give you money? They dont even know what you look like. But maybe they will if you stand right there, yea in front of the dark brown building with the chickens in the background. Get the one with the green eyes, than put the rest of his face in black and white. See the money flowing now? Now youre art!

No, these streets are not even a place for artists. Its a place for foreign liars who can tell the world that poverty is beautiful and throwing bricks builds character. And I am not one of them.

So praise the stars and the wine. Praise italy for how beautiful you dream it is. Your fireplace and your air conditioning. Your loving God and your pots and pans. Praise everytime all 100 of your family members got together. The heat when its cold and the cold when its hot. Praise Death the great equalizer! And your infant you wrap up in happiness. I think marshmellows deserve a shoutout. Marshmellows and old age. Sleeping in yo nice big bed, even when you have to share it. Praise CNN, and fox news if your a bigot. The music and the art. But most of all, Id like to thank the Louvre and Paris for being nothing, beautifully.

Hang that on your wall, bitch.