Can You Feel It No. 43

It doesn't get much more exciting than this.

That's right, custom White G slipmats. With an updated suitcase logo.

If only I had time to make new t-shirts, cut my album and the cash to work on the clothing line.

Oh well, everything in time.

I want a several-five million dollar house first anyway.

That should come from The Love Artist, the album and my paintings. I'm not going to make y'all just the fanciest ever t-shirt company.

You'll find me at Starbucks pulling Tazos before that, biotch!

Put it this way--I can go hungry financially much longer than you can go hungry spiritually/creatively.

And I relish the challenge.

And that I guarantee.

Plus, I'm double Taurus, so I'm stubborn as a motherfucker, motherfucker.

And I plan to fuck Nigo, Pharrel, Prada, Greenpeace and the Raconteurs all at the same time.

Im gonna be more art, more money, more enviro, more music and more happy from the get.

With better fucking beats.

And enjoy it more while making more money for doing less.

Cause I know exactly how they all get down.

And exactly how they've all played themselves.

And god bless 'em, but if you're played, you're played. (The Jay-Z movie Fade to Black has a brilliant conversation about gangster rappers feeling sold out for talking shit about killing people by the way. So how do you think punks feel? So who's bought in?)

And I'm already wearing $500 pants, new Polo shirts and $800 cashmere sweaters just sitting here broke, corny and relaxed.

In my salad days. Or, as the other Eben would say, my pre-grit days. (That's before the grits got thrown on Al Green).

Even if I do live at mommy's housee, boyee.

Put it this way--my financial side hustle is more rewarding and more efficient than all your spiritual side hustles put together--yoga once a week, thinking about going back to church (don't bother, I already tried it), some new guru or new age pimp.

And my wellspring is getting stronger and deeper while yours is rapidly drying up and becoming caked muck.

Teh next thing you know it'll be a dust bowl and you'll have asthma.

And while your wife may not care--after all you have provided for her very well, and Viagra makes up for some of what you've sacrificed--your kids will look at you with as much clarity as you looked at your parents before you went off to run the streets.

They know you're corny, that you can't get down. That you packed something in somewhere along the line when you didn't really have to.

They know that at some point it became too hard to maintain so you gave up.

And they know they'll have to leave you to gain what you've left behind.

That's it. Either you leave your parents or your kids will leave you.

Someone's gotta break the chain somewhere.

No, not even therapy can help you now.

There's nothing wrong.

You ARE a king among men.

You just want a real life, that's all.

To feel it.

And there's no where you can buy it.

Or even any cultural products that are unmediated--that would even talk about or suggest how it might be possible.

None besides White Gold, that is.

And the therapist, and massage therapist, and hooker that might at one point have helped--are of little use now.

They know it with as much certainty as you.

And believe the world a shit-hole to be survived as cheerfully and as well-mediated--or medicated--as possible just like you do.

Only you don't want to know that anymore.

It doens't provide the relief it once did.

The balm or air of superior knowing.

Only you can't admit this new realization, this new certainty, to anyone--even though it's growing daily.

You know that everything is perfect but you don't even know where to approach the problem, let alone how to feel the myriad solutions.

You don't want to read the self-help books or try new diets.

Yes, the universe is accelerating, but all the philosophers you believe in thought for sure it was collapsing.

Even your beloved Pessoa was a depressed wretch with a day job and a rich inner life.

You think he had it better because it was 80 years ago and they found his trunk.

And you don't even have a trunk.

But admit it--he's not even readable, just sometimes cool. He's not even coherent, just incoherent so far before anyone else that you think it must mean something.

He just appeals to the part of you that is so bored by all other books that you don't finish them.

He looks good sitting on your shelf.

Let me tell you--a motherfucking trunk is nothing.

Nothign.

Nothing but baggage.

Shit.

Only having a life is anything.

And you can't NOT have a life.

The only remaining question being:

(Just like the techno song..)

Can you feel it!!??

Piece in.

I'm o--u--t.

Motherfucker.