My father, born with the Silent Generation, told me never to argue with a fool. And later Jay-Z reminded me, “people from a distance won’t know who’s the fool.” The following words were aspired by an older gentlemen I met at a Pearl District bar downtown Portland, Oregon. I noticed immediately he was eager to chat, and I don’t do small talk. Especially with drunk folk. He was older and rightfully assumed me to be younger. As I first tuned him out, he said this, “…oh man, when you get to your fifties, it all goes down hill from there brother!” Here’s what I thought about that on my way home. (Feature photo by Oladimeji Odunsi on Unsplash)

January 11, 2019


As we all took in that last breath, we floated here lighter.

And as we all exhale this next breath, we sink further to the fire.

Into flames transmitting desires….

It’s why we all care.

Unlike these unfollowing generational fools scared.

You know them….

Such a thought deeming them ignorant goofs.

Or a social medium’s lab rat spoof.

Like money is a tool, without language we’d all be aloof.

Broke and lonely, who are you among your kinfolk?

Or, do you hide, delete, and re-filter like weak people?

They aren’t the eyes following you…

The views are your attention, it’s why heads down won’t surprise you.

Easy for them, ignorance comforts those men.

You’ll never see success the way others see it spent.

Who and what are you fighting? Money?

Don’t ever listen to the other generations, their 50’s is far from your 60.

Their 70 is no one’s 45. Our 20’s, decades from how they’ll survive.

A brother told me 35 is when it hits.

And a mother told me a pilot is white boy shit.

Another told me 50 is likely when life gets shifty.

Don’t tell me the road is rocky.

Am born a writer’s beast, assume I’m cocky.

I’ma do this my way.

The worldly whining’s are thoughts in my way.

I don’t apologize for turning my shoulder to the sunken black man that day,

Some generational negros have an odd way to my verb play.

As if they wanna’ shoot themselves,

And what about the writings of my pains?

…my old suicidal journal where the emotions sit in vain.

So, what’s it to you besides simple world-play and a good rhyming rule?

A generational fool who can speak, is the generational fool who can teach.

Same with the dumby in him whom he believes.

Like getting to 50 is my intentions or dreams.

Projecting my dreams like me is him, he wouldn’t dare to go dream on a limb.

He met the untouchable fool—an untouchable negro.

The animal which speak, running to mountain top peaks.

Unthinking time as the ultimate rule.

I should’ve told him, you’re speaking to a generational culture.

Am not like these unfollowing vultures.

So, I won’t dance to your music tonight…

It sounds depressing,

But here’s mines, hear it like a blessing.

It’s out the fires I was earlier expressing.

-Budd

Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Budd writes because no one can 'read' him. And it's a great way to hide public thoughts...

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