Older than us, they say, “Why not? Try it! You never know!” Younger than us they advise, “Research it. Text me. Have fun! Be careful! Get rest! Eat well! Workout!” (It goes on and on and when you get to the ecological portion, there are codicils.) We’re pegged for ball-less often in the same second we’re cautioned to a virtual standstill. I don’t want to be Neal Cassady and I sure as hell don’t have any aspirations toward sainthood, but I would like to grab onto something. Some swagger. As it is, the only motion my generation has is of a swinging punching bag.

The man is still the man but he dresses all kinds of ways now. He’s organic, pedantic and just a little romantic. He’s got our numbers and he’s allowed to lie to us before we request an attorney. And in this country he’s a Jesus pimp. Gimme that old time religion, the kind where Jesus doesn’t make your choices for you and where passing the hat wasn’t anybody’s admitted profession. Today, there are accounting services ready to help you should you choose a career as a shepherd. The staves are made by BMW and you can poke whomever you want with ‘em. All is forgiven.

It’s easy to see why so many take the Jesus leap. It is its own economy and there is no accountability in it. Nobody to tell you that you’re not doing it right and nobody to peg you a coward. And Jesus wants to you sell cars to your parish, Avon too, pimp away. Beaten down from every angle and taking refuge in a God we’re obviously not afraid of nor impressed by, my generation are the flocks. This is possibly where the self-loathing is the greatest. I wouldn’t know. I still fear God, so I am no modern Christian and tend to step a few feet away from one if thunder is clapping.

Beaten up, beaten down and still refusing to die. Still unwilling to forgo both the current technology and the ever loving cheeseburger. And we are well aware of the dangers. I am not proud that our claim to fame for the next few generations will be our beige consistency and how well we handle cancer, but what else is there to do? We were already addicted and we’ve recovered. Self-medicating the pain is our normalcy. We were raised to ask permission in a world where free thinkers pissed on our grandmas’ roses and conservatives raped our country while they told us we could die any minute. Shaky fingers on buttons are only suggestively funny if you’re high. But we get sober more often than we go to church.

I don’t know if there will be any massive trend among us to break down, break free and break bones, or if we’ll just stand here and keep on with the dead swinging. It might be that the only mark we ever make will only be visible under an electron microscope or in the code of a web page. So be it.

Of lighter hearts and minds, a justice has been done. (But it breaks the monotony so have at it.)

All pain comes from swelling and all meaningful learning must hurt. And so of growth what is just is made irrelevant by nature. (But it is interesting and good to have around.)

But just to utter. Just to tap. To unravel the history. To reveal the sin. To unmask the pretender and the pretense. It is just.

There is no need to apologize.

She’s dead blind though. She hates when her sword is taken to err and of petards she knows all. Every gauntlet fits and she knows which ones are for hoisting.

Because he can and because he will, Nigel is nigh and he’s laughing for those who would not take his hand for a spin. Grim and grim and grim they are with ne’re abating gloom. Oh! It is the end and it is always the end of course it’s the end and isn’t it marvelous? Nigel doesn’t ask for nods of agreement, Nigel is nigh and he dances. Never ignoring and never pretending, Nigel is nigh and he dances, I tell you he dances!

In spite of, despite, as opposed to, aren’t triggers. His feet tap and arms swing only because they can and only because they will. Yes, Nigel is nigh and he knows something simple: reality is and it always is and of course it is and isn’t it marvelous?

Do what you will and well. Is Nigel’s mother tongue and in the end it is he who dances with the storm and with everything else too. Nigel is nigh and he dances over and through, under and atop. He’ll pause at a wink from anyone’s eye and reach out his hand to every different drummer.  Poor fella. Apocalyptic he is? He is just man making mistakes. But he is nigh that Nigel and yeah, he is dancing. Isn’t it marvelous?