A Shattered Generation

Man, we're all Bedouins now, looking for a foundation after the fall, but it's all been blown to yesterday, and yesterday never was.

Looking for a place to make a stand and not get hassled. Write a few books or what-have-you and make love to my wife at night.

So how does the thirties fit you? I'm falling gracefully through time, thank you very much. Don't have half as much figured out as I did before, but then, I guess that is the mark of some kind of wisdom.

But man, how did we get here, and has it always been this weird? I look around and I know the trap-door could fall at any instant. It seems we've entered some bad space, and there is no politician that can lead us out, no holy Moses, no Joan of Arc, no Michael Collins and no Abraham Lincoln. I'll have to be my own Emma Goldman. Or you can be Emma and I'll be Alexander B. (note to J.). We'll have our own soap-box love.

Thank God for Buddha. (This Pig's aflame)

A.