To The Sophisticated Oxen

A Message To The Oxen.

A used white and grimy coffee machine and a spoiled jar of mayonnaise
Litter a dirty kitchen counter.
Without bank account and retirement plan.
A melted plastic ashtray filled with month old cigarette butts
Which serves as a reminder of resented ideas.
Rusted leaky pipes and water damage.
A barren refrigerator and stained carpeting.
No more ball games on television.
Cobweb encased plastic covered windows
Separated only by uninsulated plaster walls.
Animal hairs manifesting in a glass of water.
A two day old gas light and driving on fumes.
Mother hates me and father thinks I am a lazy a*s.
I tried to follow in their shoes at one time,
To follow those mundane traditions,
But without reservation I can now say
It's just not for me.
I am not a regular person.
Rather that creature which most cannot understand.
The one you call artist.
It's not that I am afraid to break my back as a sophisticated oxen,
Or to inflate the bank account of any random modern day slave driver-
It's just that there's no immortality in it.
It's not worthwhile to me and reserves no space in my heart.
The same space which grows less day by day.
It took some two decades to realize that we are put here only to create;
To slough off pieces of existence and humanity
And there is no precious time to waste on menial tasks.
The funeral is not the tragedy
But rather the potential wasted.
And for God's sake....at least try something damn it!
Anything!
I will continue to scream out
But you will never value my opinions.
And that is just the nature of the beast.
He who creates an arrangement of words such as this or
Splatters paint on paper;
These are my friends.
And they are rare.
They are the gamblers of destiny and fate.
They are the destroyers of programming
And the daily victims of false judgments and cynicisms.
The majority devise a price tag on their achievements.
But this was not done in error, but rather by design.
This is the battle of the producer and the consumer.
A pre-formulated divide and conquer technique.
Producers are infrequent.
They are the idea makers.
They do not see dollars, only freedom.
There are degrees of production.
The highest degree of production is pure spirit.
A consumer s***s, pisses, buys, sells and charges his way through life.
They have not tasted the freedom of creation.
Only the sweetness of ignorance and judgment.
They most likely go to church
And pray to a green god.
They graze in fields of mediocrity.
They are the sophisticated oxen.
Herded by familiarity and hatred of things foreign.
These judgments held against me,
All of them,
These are the attack of the oxen.
James Begert ©2012