Maybe I'm a Communist
is that a dirty word
covered in histories lies
and tyrants misuse?
Maybe I'm a Communist
because I want a community
because I don't want to keep check-book-balancing out the favour of my friends
because simple life is easy-come
and all this techno-trap-crap is easy-go
--
In Jerusalem, I finally feel like I'm back in the sphere of Western mentality. Put-downs, chic cliques, violent interrogations about Lifeplan. Career tenacity. Unaffordable fruits. Screwing, manoeuvrings, boasting, banking, $200 shoes. "Non-Profit" organizations. Distrust. Walls around walls around walls. Contemptuous Idealism.
I hate to be so negative but what are the positives? Toilet paper (whose value is purely based on opinion, and not valuable at all in my opinion), interesting flavours of chewing gum, and smooth roads. It's a cold hard life in the 1st world.
Maybe I'm a Communist.
Well, I'm definitely not an Arab.
Haggling, oil-soaked, aggressive, ulterior-motived.
I'm not a Bedoiun.
Black, donkey riding, coffee drinking cave dwellers.
I'm not a Jew.
Yalmulked, serious, Macintoshed and militarized.
I'm not a Palestinian.
CocaCola drinking, Victory cigarette smoking, rock throwing graveyard boys.
I'm not dancing in the Musla-mo-rama.
I'm not Jack Chritianiac.
I'm not fighting for Jewland.
So, maybe I'm a Communist.
--
I'll tell you a story, condensed stretched and reorganized. September 2012 - January 2013:
Climbed the mountains, poem book in hand, rolling in ganga fields and peaceful snow-winds.
Jumping handstands in a shanti garden, giving naked oil massages to tattooed Fillipinos.
10 days of ritual silence and indoctrination by a Burmese guru behind a 12 inch television screen.
Disillusion with Buddhism.
Silence with Buddha.
Another romance
Another moondance
Another life so far removed
Another bus ride
Another long night
Another strange man in funny shoes
Sleeping on the cold desert stone at the base of the tallest building in the world. The lowest I can go.
Running through the airport in my socks as the attendants shout my name for final call.
Arguing with a bullshit scam-artist hotel manager over 10 Euro.
Playing the flute in the echoing Arabian desert.
Hitch-hiking though badlands and poison seas.
Now here, in the Holy City - contested for the love of contest - I know I don't belong here. Im a weirdo. I'm a Freak. I'm not special. I don't belong here.
Maybe...
The East is Red
and So Am I.
