Morrison's Lament

By Michael Friedman © 2009

I sit here alone watching the movie The Doors wondering where my inner Jim Morrison has gone. I use to talk with him so much. We would frequently share stories of excess and divine intervention while trying to figure out exactly who I wanted to be. The '60s icon walked the fine line of my soul and he fell close to my natural instincts when it came to figuring out why we do the things we do. I find I miss him desperately these days.

The ghost of Morrison on the television screen reminds me of how I desperately want to stand up and scream to the world that I am a drunken buffoon who is high on the universe, but all I can do is remember distant visions of what it was like to get lost in the desert. I think this is the time to repent, but ironically I find myself regretting less and less these days. The song says that we can't get much higher and yet I still find myself yearning for what I know I ultimately can't have.

As I peer through the illusion of my existence, I find myself jonesing for another taste of divinity. I've burnt the candle on both ends and I am once again forced to find my place in this monochromatic world of subtle delusion. Society no longer values the divinity of the self, so I find myself amiss all of the technology, discontent, and terror and although it takes only a moment to imagine that I am free from the nastiness that the universe leaves on my lips with every gut-wrenching soul kiss, in all honesty, the taste on my the tip of my tongue never really disappears.

I am the lizard king and I can do anything, so long as you remind me of who I am and what I have seen in the many journeys of my soul. I constantly find myself asking how many people know that I'm alive and yet I have no answer for the shaman that asks why I shed a tear every time I think of the world's pain.

In this life, I have learned that if you kiss the snake, you will come to understand your place in the divine comedy. Just as long as you are willing to make the sacrifice that comes with showing the world you have mad genius. A dharma superstar has to willingly let his or her words drip drops of psychedelic madness on empty canvasses while the God in them pisses freely into the cosmic fountain of youth that lays on the distant shore of life's transcendent psychosis. Remember kid, out here, we is stoned, immaculate.

It is time to fall off of the cliff again and take the journey to the forefront of my mind so that we can taste the succulent juices of Gaya's insanity. There is danger on the edge of town, so that's where I'm headed first. I'm rolling like a soldier on Ecstasy, conflicted by my life's mission and thoughts of the nirvana that lies in the unknown.

Where is the God of rock and cock when I need him? It's time to once again slip off into the sunset as I slowly slit my wrists and watch with a smile on my face as I begin to bleed my divinity onto the floor. I start to drown in life's cosmic juices as I try swimming my way free from the belly of the beast. I try desperately to hold my breath as I continue to sink deeper into my madness when my limbs fail to move to life's rhythm, but I fail miserably.

Even though I know that we manifest this experience, I feel as though I can't control any of what is happening to me and as a result, I frequently find myself reveling in my inability to do the thing my soul needs in order to sustain itself during my trip through this lifetime. I just can't seem to figure out why I choose to repeat this mania over and over again. Some say I have a disease and that I'm slightly deranged. I don't think they are far from the truth considering we live in a universe of impossibilities that seem to happen all of the time. It's time to find a way to get back to the middle path.

The streets are up even when you are down. Isn't that the truth brother. I've been tossed out and spit up so many times that I can't remember the last time I wasn't bitch-slapped into this destiny. Here we all sit, wondering whether we are who we are or whether we are simply playing a role in someone else's fantasy, so let's sneak away from this place and try to find our innocence once again. We will quickly fall into our roles as modern nomads, psychedelic dreamers who steal away in the moonlight.

If you love me two times, I promise I'll do my best not to strike out on my third swing for the cosmic fences. I'm not saying I give up by any means, but I have to admit that it is a lot harder to put it down than it is to pick it up. I frequently find myself struggling with my inconsistencies on a daily basis, so you'll have to give me time to find out which way is up if I have any hope of finding the yellow brick road of my subconscious.

Please forgive me my daydreams as I continue to spew nonsensical tidings of a life that seems to escape me on a regular basis. Is everybody in? That's the million dollar question and I'm still searching for an answer. I'm sure as hell here and I have once again woken up to my soul's angst. It's time to do something rash before I split open and melt. I had better slay my inner demons before I burn another hole in the very essence of my being.

It's time to wake up motherfuckers as we trip the light fantastic yet again and this time, make sure to remember to bring your sunglasses because it's bright on the other side and the sun shines 24-7. I've finally realized that there is nowhere left to run inside my head and I have accepted that I no longer need to try and set the world's record for being the fastest mentally challenged sentimentalist alive.

I don't want much my friend, just enough of a taste to give me my fix. Please Mr. Bodhisattva sir, may I have another? Inject me with your hedonistic opiates and purify me with your narcotic love because I need some dirty justice and I need it now. Just jam it in my veins and let me feel the rush of the inner mind's eye as it fills with visions of paradise on Earth and memories of momentary bliss. I'll willingly admit that I'm a metaphysical junkie, but the way I see it, if you have to be hooked on something, why not be hooked on destiny?


Michael Friedman in a writer from Las Vegas, NV