We live in a twisted society and in this society we often find ways to justify both the right and the wrong and often within the same sentence or thought. One might think that this is some political trick, a ruse to befuddle those with nimble bones, wax filled ears and twice broken bifocals. One may wonder if this description paints a picture of me or perhaps you, if you are able to admit it. At the moment and I am stuck wondering if it is me who is wearing those twice broken bifocals unsavory as that thought may be.
I am the scum of society. I am the grime that collects in the groove of your shoes. I am the scum on the street abusing and using the system, myself and the American way of life. I am nothing but a pitiful waste of skin and bones. Society hates the man with the twice broken bifocals for good reason. Society hates this man because society failed in its morbid quest to deny him everything.
The man with the twice broken bifocals is not an ordinary fellow. This man has volumes of valuable knowledge and wisdom and experience deep within his heart and in his brain. You look at him with contempt for he is what is wrong with America, or so you’ve been taught or believe.
I find it most shocking when I am on the street or on the subway, and against my better judgment I become an eyewitness to the luxury and the fraud of those before me. Perhaps these mutants from a better upbringing than mine, who look at me with scorn and detestation, will at last discover the hope and beauty within me. But, for now they must quickly scurry along and fly faraway to celebrate their meaningless, empty, luxurious and obnoxious lives. How many people from my neighborhood, where I am from, get to go on trips and fly here and there and everywhere you can imagine? Therefore, I am the man with the twice broken bifocals and I am going nowhere.
Perhaps it is all in their heads and perhaps it is all in mine however when will someone think twice about throwing people who have so much to offer into the trash? People of America take a look in the mirror and pay attention. You stare at this man and when he looks you in the eye you become a ghost and look away and you hold your purse and your child closer and tighter and you don’t have a clue that I cannot clearly see you through my twice broken bifocals. I sit here and I cry and I beg; if you won’t help me live then please help me die.
In death, one does not need to wear twice broken bifocals but I would ask to please have my lucky spectacles, as useless as they may be, buried with me as they are my only reliable friend. I don’t need a fancy box for my flesh and my organs to be devoured by bugs in so please, just dig a hole and throw me in; it is as simple as that. I don’t care about a headstone or a suit jacket, a button down shirt or fancy slacks so please let me die with dignity, my way.
When all is said and done, please plant a lilac bush on the grass up above my final resting place, as lilacs are my favorite flower.
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