on the bright side of the road

thoughts, photographs, poetry and prose from a musician in brooklyn, new york (via the very-much homesick louisiana). kristin diable (www.kristindiable.com)

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Location: New York, New York, United States

Friday, April 15, 2005

DEAR AMERICA.

DEAR AMERICA,

MY HEART IS BROKEN. TODAY. DEAR, SWEET AMERICA, IT’S BROKEN, ALL BROKEN, YET AGAIN.
I PLAYED MY SOUL, LIKE A SOULLESS UNSTRINGRD HARP
PLAYED IT LOUD AND WITHOUT RESErVE.
I MADE NOT A PENNY TO MY UNKNOWN NAME
AND OWED MORE THAN I OFFERED TO THE SOUND MEN
FOR LENDIING ME THE CHANCE
I WALKED HOME IN THE DEAD COLD
AND ITS APRIL FOR CHRISTs FUCKING SAKE
AND I TREMBLED IN TERROR, AMERICA,
OF WHAT YOU CREATE

THE DRUNKARDS ON THE AVENUE
THE COLLEGE BOYS WITH LIBATION AND NO BOOKS
THE BEAUTIFUL GIRLS WHO KNOW BEAUTY IS A HIGH EXCHANGE RATE CURRENCY
AND ME, WITH MY AMERICAN BROKEN HEART STRAPPED TO THE ASPHALT, DRUG ALONG THE CONCRETE
THE END. THE GOD DAMN END OF ME.

AND AMERICA,
I SAW THE MUI MUI ADS
WITH CELEBRITY SALESMEN PLAYING THEIR ROLE
TO SHOW WHAT BEAUTY IS AND WHAT IT AINT
AND THE SMILES BROKE MY HEART IN A HOLE

I AM DEVOURING A BAG OF COOKIES, SWEET AMERICA
BECAUSE THERE IS NO MORE SWEETNESS LEFT
BUT IN A BAG, IN MY HAND, PURCHASED WITH MONEY I DON’T EVEN HAVE.

AND GOD DAMN GOD DAMN AMERICA
I’M DRINKING MILK OUT OF A CARBONATED CAN!
IT TASTE LIKE WATER, TASTES LIKE POISON
WHEN WAS IT I LOST MY TRUEST LAST FRIEND?

I LOVED MY MOTHER MORE THEN EVEN I, SEEM TO KNOW
SHE TOLD ME OF SHELTER AND MAKING A GOOD HOME
AND SHE VOTES NOW, EVERY FOURTH YEAR IN VAIN
FOR THE ONLY MAN WHOM MOST HER RELATIVES DON’T SHAME

AND AMERICA
MY HEARTS BEEN BROKE IN HALF
FOR MY MOST LOVED LOVER LIVED JUST DOWN THE HALLWAY
AND EVERY NIGHT WHEN I STUMBLE IN, I SEE HIM
I CONSIDER HIM
AND I HAVE A KEY TO HIS ROOM
BUT HE HAS THE KEY
TO ME.
IT’LL NEVER BE RETURNED, OR COPIED

GOD DAMN IT BREAKS MY HEART, DEAR AMERICA
HOW YOU SHAME YOUR “CIVILIZED NAME”
I SRENT MY DAY TODAY IN A WAITING PLACE
FOR THE DOCTORS TO SAVE THE POOR HUMAN RACE

AND THE DARK PEOPLE THEY CRIED,
THE FAIR SKINNED MOANED,
NOT A MAN WOMAN OR CHILD WAS JUSTLY OCCUPUIED
IN THEIR SLIPPERS FILLED BY THE POOR

THERE IS NO RACISM.
THERE IS NO CALVINSISM.
NO BLACK, WHITE, OR GRAY

IN THE WAITING ROOM OF THE WORKING MAN
WE’RE ALL FIGHTING JUST TO LIVE TO SIMPLE ENDS

THERE ARE HAVE AND HAVE NOTS.
THERE IS NO LONGER IN BETWEEN.

AND TODAY I SAW THE SWEETEST CHILD, WITH A HEART BIGGER THAN GROWN MEN. AND A SOUL MAYBE OLDER THAN MINE.
HE COULDN’T HAVE BEEN MORE THAN THREE.
AND HIS HEART WAS FULL, HIS FEET WERE DANCING FREELY
HE ROCKED HIS BABY SISTER IN HER CRIB FOR CARRYING
AND HE SMILED AT THE WILTED, GROWN LOST HEARTS,
FOR ALL THE FAITH HE STILL KNEW OF

AND MY LITTLE DOG WAS GONE WHEN I GOT Home
THE OLD LOVE TOOK HIM IN FOR, LOVE.
AND WHAT IS A LONELY GIRL TO DO.
I LOVE THAT SIMPLE ANIMAL
MORE THAN I LOVE MOST CREATURES WITH BRAINS AND LIMBED HOOVES

AND GOD FUCKING DAMN
I DO LOVE YOU AMERICA
LIKE I LOVE ALL THE LOVE THAT I’VE LOST

AND YOU’RE A TORN AND UGLY THING
BUT I HAVE FAITH IN WHAT YOU ARE TO BECOME
AND GOD DAMN, DISTANT AMERICA
I JUST WALKED MY BROKEN FEET OFF A JET PLANE
FALLEN HALFWAY ‘CROSS THE EARTH,
AND YOURE POLITICS ARE JUST THE SAME

AND DARLING AMERICA,
THE POOR ARE EVEN POORER THAN WHEN I LEFT
SWEET HOME AMERICA,
IT ONLY BRINGS TEARS BY KNOWING WHAT WEVE PROGRESSED.

GOD DAMN, GOD DAMN AMERICA
I’M SO SORRY ABOUT VIETNAM
I’M SORRY ABOUT HIROSHIMA
I’M SORRY ABOUT IRAQ
I’VE BEEN READING THE HISTORY ACCOUNTS
THE ONES WHITE, PRIVELEGED MEN DON’T ACCOUNT.
AND I’M SORRY FOR MY BLOOD
BEFORE I COULD RECOLLECT

AND SWEETEST, MOST PURE, DEAR AMERICA
I STAND BEFORE YOU
SO PROUD

NOT OF WHAT YOU ARE
A DISMAL, BLEAK, BATTERED SOUL
BUT SWEET, SWEET, DARK AMERICA
I’M WAITING FOR YOUR RECOURSE
WAITING FOR YOUR TURN AROUND
TO WASH HANDS CLEAN OF THE CAPITAL MACHINES
AND SWIM FREED IN A NEW SEA OF
PURE PURE PURE
PURITY.

GOD GOD GOD DAMN! AMERICA
YOU GONE AND BROKE MY SAD HEART IN HALF
CAUSE I LOVE YOU SO,
I LOVE YOU SO
AND YOU’LL BREAK ME DOWN
BEYOND THE BONE

OH I LOVE YOU SO, I’LL ALWAYS LOVE YOU SO
BUT I’LL CALL YOUR HAND
WHEN YOU’RE STEALING BONES.

I LOVE YOU SO.
I FUCKING TOLD YOU SO.
BUT I WON’T STAND BLIND
AS YOU BREAK MY HANDS so UNKINDLY

I WON’T STAND SMILING AS YOU
WEAR NEW SHAMES.
I WON’T BE JOYOUS WHEN YOU
RAPE MY WHOLESOME NAME.

AMERICA, WILL YOU HEAR ME NOW?

AMERICA, I LOVE YOU.
WITHOUT A DOUBT.

DON’T LET ME DOWN.
DON’T LET ME DOWN NOW.

SWEETEST DEAR AMERICA.

3 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

YIPPEE!

i love reading your words. :-)

ILKD4E

7:37 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

My dear Kristin,

I've missed you. I hope this message finds you well, and you're either smiling, somewhere, possible while you sleep, or willing to smile as you read this whenever that time may come. Are you smiling yet? Do it.

Your words are beautiful. Of course, telling you that is as meaningless and smooth peanut butter. (I’ve recently fallen head over heels for crunchy). Your thoughts are individual; they’re peculiar and sublime all at the same time. Okay, enough kissing your ass. Why’d you cut your hair? The shadows your locks once left on your face are much more becoming of you than you might have once thought. Then again, maybe you were aware of that. Okay, I dig the hair.

I have news, Kristin. I’m moving to New York. Upper West side in a quaint, yet terribly intimidating two-bedroom shrine to the hassle of this Kansas mind. I’ll only be staying late-June through mid-August, however, the musicians I have waiting my arrival are as sexy and sheik as your short hair. Woot woot.

I’d like to spend some time catching up once I’ve arrived, and possibly share the bill at some point, as we did TWO YEARS ago. Can you believe that? What happened? Where’d that time go? It’s been spent now, in a sub-orderly and, at times, heart-numbing fashion. (Sweet God, this New York visit is extremely overdo).

As I said, I hope this message finds you well, and you’re smiling, drinking your coffee and strumming your guitar like you once combed your long hair. Okay, I’ll stop that. Please get back to me, dear. Email works, but I’ve got a new number that your phone must inherit soon. Let’s make this contact happen. Subways, avenues and coffee shops provide far too many spaces to fill, just by some crazy chance, in your presence. I’d hate to go there and be left to hunt you down.

.be gooD
t

11:58 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

To be creative and contrived, leaves one curious - curious over whether they are being creative due to creativity, or because being creative is creative in itself. This life form of words, pictures, paintings, melodies...could it all be a farce? A way of making ourselves feel better. Perhaps, but if it does...wouldnt that be bliss. And if being an artist is being in bliss, then wouldnt bliss be differect than what artists thought it was all along - I believe somewhere though that it's real...that creation is real, and music is real. If not, we are all going to hell (which is an artists heaven). Get it?

3:09 AM  

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