I am attached -- to the earth, by the weight she gives my body I am attached -- to eating, by hunger to breath, by the mysterious desire for air I am attached -- to my mate, by the need for warmth and companionship to my children by genetic strands and webs of delight to other people, by being like them to mountains and streams and deserts and winds and ocean waves lamplight in the dark Moonlight at midnight I am attached to the web of being so completely, look at me and you everywhere in everything We are attached.
He lived and died anonymously. He had no friends that he could call upon When he was in trouble and he often was
He drank incessantly as a true expression Of his confusion, and could not spare a minute To reflect upon causes or consequences. He picked his acquaintances carelessly, According to convenience, and thus was often disappointed by their poor sense of timing. He declined to follow through on things, and his idea of a good sense of closure was leaving. When his mother died, the last person on earth to have any interest in his whereabouts disappeared. When he died, it was like a star went out that nobody had been looking at or ever noted. And I ask you do you care?
Machines are the slaves Of the modern day, No need for men to labor At a poor man’s pay Microchips used to make me Feel all right They powered my iPod And the tunes were tight Then one day there came a money crunch And a Chinese robot ate my lunch
And I became a Luddite Overnight!
I used to carry my guitar In a gunny sack Go to Circle K For a midnight snack Hot dogs, pudding pops Were really cool I ate that shit Like a fuckin’ fool Then the doc said I had colon cancer In a New York minute I had the answer
And I became a Luddite Overnight!
I used to have a girlfriend Her name was Rita Then I got a computer And I ceased to meet her All night deep in Internet Seein’ silicone chicks Havin’ cybersex Then one day I got my credit card bill And I was a Jack without a Jill
In town the earth is paved strips of green maintained with effort Fertilized, trimmed, shorn of luxuriance Spaces on the sidewalk reserved for trees chosen, doubtless, for their tractability, Their tendency, proven to the planners, to grow without buckling the sidewalks. Cars -- the city is made for our cars air for their carburetors asphalt for their wheels filling stations for their thirst And the town is full of the sound of their effort Which is the shifting of gears the purr of a late model import the husky rumble of a healthy domestic the emphysemic labor of a degenerated sedan with a dead cylinder, missing loudly as it accelerates down the main drag Sit at a street window and listen to the systole and diastole of traffic's pulse regulated with changing lights and the unheard clicks of unobtrusive grey boxes Accelerating and braking all day long, rubber tired, gas powered, water cooled well-upholstered, shock absorbing thermostaticly controlled steel envelopes with chromed adornments ferry the vulnerable cells to and fro carry them here and there on strange fleshly errands ... breathing and seeing creatures of skin -- soft eyes, rouged cheeks and businessmen's hats and neolite heels inspire pity in mechanical hearts --- they turn off with the ignition key and do not notice when the officer fits a parking ticket under one eyelash They sit outside in the rain as people sweet to each other nestle up in restaurants and fill up on sandwiches and cold drinks They sleep under the hood while high heels wander through the mall and from store to store over the sidewalk by the dripping trees in their reserved spaces Their batteries run down helplessly while their lights stare blankly at a wall, and when their owner comes back they just won't start.
Trust old Bak to steer you right, I've burned the oil into the night To find the scrap of evidence To prove what should be obvious That everyone is quite obsessed, In a clinical sense And needs to go to detox In a computer-free space. The statistics are in, Your brain is burning dim, And hitting that space bar Isn't going to take you very far, And posting just one more reply Just isn't going to get you by. The sun is calling, But you don't hear it. Your son wants to play ball, But you won't go near it. Just admit it, You've got to quit it, God forbid Your mother should see you like this. Just look at this place, The beds unmade, There's dust on the table And there isn't a maid, So look that face in the mirror, And don't turn away, It's the face of addiction Every day. People are polite Too polite to say what they think That your mind's on the blink If you were clicking for dollars they'd all approve, But you were just following the spiritual groove And in all that time You left but one impression On the seat Of your swivel chair.