Words of Pain

Buford Youthward

The graffiti writer is the last great hope of capitalism. There are no annual reports, no stockholders or insurance companies to manage risks. No united nations, no united universe -- just individual sacrifice. The hero receives no reward and anonymously moves on to the next distressed damsel on the track. A free lie comes with every myth, though, so the wise don't believe too readily.

Many moral decisions are based on suspect information. We laugh at the media trying to package and sell a focus-group world with advertising by committee. We cringe at what capitalism has become. Marx was wrong after all -- but I don't have to tell you that -- you're already skeptical of one-size-fits-all solutions.

Not a minute passes when we aren't plugged into some psychic spin cycle. We justify each trip, each fall into our own crystal ball, as if every inward itch must generate an outward gaze. Our opinions have us whether we know it or not. It's all embedded bullshit.

No violence is ever justified and no charity is ever trustworthy. Disparagers revel in that, but I'm too cool to be a cynic. Point of view is everything. "Reality" has become a deconstruction of truth manipulated to serve the purposes of the preacher. Sheeple of the world unite under the staff of ignorance, bliss, helplessness and automation. The wiser walk past the circus and into the garden, where if you look for it, a little truth may be struggling into bloom.

Jesus said he who lusts after a woman in his heart has already committed adultery ... but what if I dream of good deeds while I hate my enemy?

Johnny Cash hasn't died for my sins yet -- but his words of pain wash me in the blood. The conscience of the world is in a guitar and a can of spray paint. Truth is not in the eye of the beholder but in the action of the vandal.

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