This poem was inspired by Cornelius Plantinga’s book Not the Way It’s Supposed to Be and the lyrics to Cake’s song “Rock ‘n’ Roll Lifestyle.”
Bellyful.
Passive-aggressive bomb
Or self-medicated napalm?
The neglect of this rhyme
Revives the justification of your dime
Spent on supersized fries
While kids in the Congo
Go without a belly full.
The shorter the wick
The taller the tale of the explosion—
Empty promises in elephantine parcels
Of entrapment called sin.
You belie,
Binging Costco-sized pies
Of debauchery and winsome excuses
As you pull out to win
Or more like
To erode the character within.
Your intestines
Melt your senses away.
Time becomes its own prison.
So let’s reverse the curse
With role reversals
That set up the stage
For dress rehearsals—
Of empathy.
You think your popularity
Purchases your freedom.
Votes are bought,
People are sold
Like the transatlantic slave-trade of old,
Triangulating tobacco, spiced-rum,
And black souls.
What no one sees,
What you hate to admit to yourself
When you’re all alone,
Strung out,
Scratching where there’s no itch:
Dying favors excess;
The Angel of Death seduces draconian
Dynasties, syndicates, tycoons, cartels,
The rich and the rest.
Addicts of the world, unite!
Reclaim your identity!
Stand up and fight!
Insatiability is the opiate of the masses.
If you can’t see it
Perhaps Gluttony prescribed your glasses.
Rebel against your master,
Who holds you in chains
With a platinum label—
A “rockin’ roll lifestyle”—
Numbing your pains,
Where authenticity wears no crown,
Where peace can only be found
In a snow-globe turned upside down.
The Entitled,
The Elite,
Whose motives are anything but discreet,
Hedonistic pigs wearing powdered-wigs
Of prosperity,
Today’s pragmatic pimps
Behind masks that hide their jowls
And scandalous snouts.
We call them plastic surgeons
With a postdoc degree in superficiality
And a scalpel of vanity
Used with privileged precision.
What about Babylon’s destruction?
And King Nebuchadnezzar’s liposuction—
Of the brain?
Bovine was his name.
A cow, his new identity.
Seven years to grow a new stomach
And lose his insanity.
Who’re you really hurting?
It’s up to you:
Those who use you
Can’t abuse you
If you plug-up the hole
Of hopelessness
That ensues you.
Stick your finger inside.
Feel around—
A universe of pretension and pride.
Pull out the poison,
The evil that touched you,
Molded you,
Enabled you,
And scolded you
When you were young.
The heart and stomach
Are often mistaken:
One fights for hope
And the other for hype
When nerves are shaken.
Don’t confuse passion
With speaking dirty
Or rebellion with excess,
Which society calls “success”—
A lie that grabs you by the throat
As you choke out your last breath:
“This is ‘not the way it’s supposed to be.’ ”
The struggle for survival proves it.
Let’s call it what it is—distortion,
“The spoiling of shalom,”
A corporate drone,
Knowing your every move
And mischievous deed
To sell you what you don’t need:
White powder on the bathroom counter
And a flipped-up skirt with a scarlet letter.
Tide can’t erase that stain
Or make it better.
You might be able to hide it
With an Argyle sweater
Tied around your waist
But who’re you kiddin’
You’re still selling your body
To the highest bidder.
Once is too much
And 24 ain’t enough.
You live with a paradox—
Checkin’ every box off
Your Christmas list is rough
And the more afraid you are
The more you act tough.
Life with the wrong surplus
Shines with LED lights on automatic timers.
Life is more than getting high
In order to get by.
A rebel without a cause
Is no rebel but a grown juvenile,
Living in denial,
Trending torn Levi’s and a leather jacket,
Raising hell for an applause
He sought but couldn’t find
In his father’s fastidious eyes.
Was it any surprise?
His father’s father
Left him alone in wet Pampers.
Baby wailed through the night
Searching for the soothing sound
Of his own name
Until wailing subsided
To crying;
Crying subsided
To lying;
And lying subsided to pretending,
Pretending without trying.