generation xchit

i sound like my mother

whose sicilian rage

accompanied her

 screamin’ down ocean park blvd.

forty years ago

enraged  and spewing about

‘those damn worthless longhairs…’


i sound like this same mother sometimes

‘cept she  gathered her ‘mother’s club’ gang

(all good catholic church-ladies)

from  st. clement’s parish

to band together  for an urgent cause…

burnin’up the phone lines

of  a santa monica cop shop,

they gathered to do their civic duty

for their god and salvation

righting a wrong  in the neighborhood…

 collectively complainin’, they accomplished

their righteous goals

to drive

a smut peddler bookstore owner

out of the ‘hood on a rail

for sellin’ his wares to their innocent daughters

walkin’ home from school…

look what we found, they cried!

hidden copies of earth!

smut!  all of it!  disgusting!

tucked amid schoolbooks

these god-fearin’ women

found soft-shelled chapbooks

and gasped

in shock and horror!

recoiled in anger, they 

 wallowed in their self-righteous rage

choking, they

 swallowed hefty doses

 of  scathing embarrassment…

still, they leapt into action!


i act like my mother sometimes

needing to right a wrong

gathering the masses for a cause

usually having to do with equality

and justice

freedom of speech

cuts in services to the sick

or a senseless war…

these are my reasons

for taking it to the streets

the airwaves

or cyberspace…

freedom of speech, press

any freedoms

are reasons for fighting…


i am judge and jury

but not in the censoring of art

nor in the concerns of what’s

apparent on the outside

of things…

not much can shock me anymore

i’ve seen too much to feign surprise or even

disgust at the antics of humans…


 the drag isn’t the problem

in my world called today

its that little/nothing really matters

as they sit, contained and immersed

in their ‘selfy’ selves

draped  in their perceptions

their mantles of cool

cloaking rudeness…

 “who gives a  shit”

is carried in their stony shoulders

that’s what brings me to my knees..


its not the  window dressings

the masks or performances

of their art

that’s what redeems and excites

often, its their only saving grace…

all that is insignificant


to what’s shakin’

or not

on the interiors…


this is a generation

with troubling shaky layers

running hot to cold

from  arrogant to rude

they manuever next to me

all wiring and machinery

unspeaking and robotic

with their tecky-toy selves

blasting talk-talk  ‘music’ reeking of violence

its senseless whining reflecting

off massive gold and diamond gangsta

encrusted hardware


 from rotted teeth to b-ball court toe…


their living, breathing human remains

are devoid of  inter-personal substance

with little  heart

their knowlege and practice

in the treatment of humans

slips away

as if they were never taught the simple act

of mirroring ways you wish to be treated…


broad generalitzations

 human profiling

prejudice and bias

don’t work for me either,

fellow reader..

its the folly of

old women crones,

staunchly self-righteous in their musings

even i have to laugh at the insipidness

of my own words…

judging and jurying

a generation, who are

as foreign as aliens

these shadows and phantoms,

disguised as humans

keep headin’ on down the road

miles ahead of me, while i

uncertain in my steps

stumble, lagging behind…

they leave me choking 

 blinded by clouds of  ugly dust…

so here i ‘ll sit

 paralyzed and surpised

by my ease of squatting

on this brand of judgment…

i’ll gaze at this bruised sky

wasting time and missing the dysfunction

of human-to-human

realtime contact

that has disappeared into

 the bowels of “how it used to be”…

 trouble is…………………………

About lindalou5150

as exercise or exorcism, i write...for the eyes of others, for my eyes and heart only, for the love and the rage, i release the gamut of tell the truth and say what's often thought but not written...
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