12 de março de 2005

Jack Kerouac (1922-1969)

Peace of Mind

While rollerblading hurriedly through peaceful quiet suburbia,
as is my habit in the prime of spring,
I came to realize what I was made for.
On similar spring skates from years past,
I would think of how much I love suburban innocence and tranquility, and eventually how I once loved suburban innocence and tranquility.

This April 23, however was filled not with joyful rememberance,
but with hope and curiousity about what sort of peace of mind I can obtain.
I'm tired of quiet decomposition and pretended indifference.
Constant hate and dislike.
The time has come to embrace the finer things,
to appreciate the warmth of security and smiles.
The sprinkler does it's whirrrrr, tick-tick-tick-tick.
Jesus, they should make pie flavors with pictures of this on the cover.

I slowed down, enchanted by the artificialy lovely neighborhood.
Skated on past bar-b-que on front lawn of a pretty house.
Men with polo shirts look up from their beer and smile pleasantly.
Moms look over with concern to see that their happiness isn't run over by unruly teenagers.
Boys on 13 inch tired bikes that read 'mud slinger' and 'power rangers' pedal galantly after me.
Girls around 13 smile inocently and wonder if they know my little brother.

The climate's ideal, and so are the people.
Reached a dead end of sorts that looked quiet enough to sit down and give my feet some rest.
7 year old with dark skin pedals thoughtfuly down his drive way.
The Bar-B-que is taking place only a couple of yards away.
He looks over at me with a lonely questioning look,
and as I skate back the way I came, I wonder why he isn't involved in the charred animal flesh consumption.
It could be his skin color, but that seems too petty for such a pleasant place.
Perhaps it's his parent's religious views, their funny accent, or more likely an overwhelming sense of isolation.
It seems that there must be some sort of 'just think pleasant thoughts' conspiracy around here and the standards are slow to change.

As I skate by once more, I look long and hard at the happy suburbanites.
They still looked really content and warm, but I noticed not one of them was anything but white.
What does it matter, I'm white, anyways.

Jack Kerouac


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