White Bread Man keeps saying, I’ve got it all under control, man.
Vern Bender
He was deeply tangled up in the bygones of yesterday. The axe was about to fall. The street fighters were just around the bend. The country is in an uproar; blood is in the streets again. Open doors have been shut behind you. There is only one way out, but you can’t find that door. The stairs you are claiming go nowhere. This is the end, my friend.
Angel dust is not around much anymore. Everybody’s moved on to the harder stuff. The angel of death is now hovering around. What is your situation, White Bread Man? Your friend Annie got herself a gun. Hiding away in some dimly lit crosstown bar, with your back against the wall, matters little. Once Annie got her a gun, you couldn’t hide, and you couldn’t run, once Annie got her a gun. You won’t make it to Spring now that Annie got her a gun.
Living without God eliminates your bridge to what’s next. Your non-God values and ideals are dead-end streets as you wander in nowhere land. You are swimming in the endless sea of oblivion. Your unstable life has shattered the moral compass within your mind.
Beware of the come hither whispers from the gleam in flashing eyes; It is the seductive siren song calling for your demise. A contingent empirical premise isn’t sufficient reason to take you off the killing floor; severed heads are congregated on the ground around you.
White Bread Man keeps saying, “I’ve got it all under control, man, chill out. Your sworn duty is to protect my liberties, you see.” The storm is tossing things about; everything is broken. Revolutions are hardly ever under control, anyway.
The great terror is upon you. Your blood-stained hands reveal the savage violence that abounds throughout the land—the night’s black veil is pulled back to reveal dawn’s first light. Dawn’s new light reveals vivid faces that had survived the night. They greeted us with polite, meaningless phrases. They are carted off to the chopping block. Truth has to stay in private talk. Liberty and tyranny are in the eyes of the beholder; it depends upon whose ox is being gored.
When you wander without a destination, any road will get you there. The present includes the past, and the future holds both without regret. The past isn’t necessarily through with you. Memorable moments slip in and out of time. Pre-conscious terrors spin through your mind. The voice of reason isn’t always around; White Bread Man is lying to you.
Citizens of poverty are all around you. The mass of contradictions amazes you, and everybody has a gun. White Bread Man says, “The revolution is close, and you can’t double-shuffle your way out of this one. The madness is in the streets and the gutters, too.” Midnight vibrations disturb the stillness of the night.
White Bread Man says, “The begging has no end because it always begins again. The eye in the sky is keeping score.”
