Next Yr.

Next year; I’m going to decide: How Bad Do I Want It?

Scoff all that you want... but let’s think about it…

How bad do I want the recognition? How strong is the desire? Broken stems and petals that slide up and along the banks of Gave de Pau … what are we left with?

is it political discontent? choreographed lives? the middle of the end…? is there a culpable disease corrupting our brains and our nervous system?

I have yet to put my finger on it; but we are operating in an increasingly violent hysterical deck of tarot cards.

to think about what is outrageous now… as compared to what used to be hysterical?

I hate the cliché but no one sees the signs. and what is my response? to find a Maduro and a nice red … because I don’t think I care either. … perhaps - I am wrong to find possibilities under the rock, weary transistor wave lengths that tell us that hero’s are coming home or simply believing that the gods listen to my art.

I’m angry too. Bitter. Disappointed. In a fever pitched state of feeling… screwed.

America; you are going to find out that it may get terminal. You have to realize that unless you actuate the Leaders; we will die.

And Leaders? Let’s try and pay attention; this is only a one shot audition. Citizenship? We miss ye, we miss ye! Where is my tea party, Dammit!

Next year; will the Mets make the Series? Beat the Yanks in 4 shut out games? It’s extremely naïve of me; but why not?

Next year; start to lose weight… why not?

Next year; participate in a team building experience that actually depicts that we are doing this to receive a participation award…comrade

Next year; what bothers me about this year… I no longer care about. And if in particularly it irked me? I might keep in on the books… just to be honest.

Next year; submit I’m Ronnie Millsap, Bitch!!! to Dave Chappell and we become business partners.

Next year; my Country Ballad #1 becomes top selling country single of all time.

Next year; you know what I mean… make it my year! I’m due… I have that gamblers anticipation tying my stomach in knots… this year… you know what I’m talking about? This year, the way we mean RIGHT NOW, when yelling at the kids, the niece or nephew, the dog or the 911 assistant. I’m j-j-just saying that if it isn’t this year; then I wonder when? Know what I mean? good old buddy old pal Next Year? … a couple of near misses this year… but next year; some of my hopes and dreams… I don’t need to be Max Bruch, a little sunshine on my shoulder… you know, those times when you don’t know that the time is ticking away…as it was when… we… didn’t… know…better.

Next year; more fully learn the line ‘sweet scenes from my youth, seat of comfort and truth’

Next year razz ma tazz - razz ma tazz - razz ma tazz

Next year; drink a beer to Nancy Wilson… when did you leave heaven, angel mine?

Next year; what is old hateful long suffering that I have been unable to find a way to let it go, would you help me?

Hey Next year; and If I didn’t know what I did?? will you forgive me?

Next year; allow for some randomness… and protect everybody.

and if I left anything out… remind me about it next year…



December 31, 2007

© 2007 woundedlordliterature

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