my generation vacation

i am the man standing on the balcony
cooly smoking a cigarette pressed between two slender fingers,
inhaling sharply and stopping short for the occasional gasp for oxygen.
the smoke bellows horizontally in a pillar-column that slowly turns to sand in the wind.

pondering all wondrous things that these sad creatures now have, undiscovered slowly slipping out of obscurity and into limelight.

the others sprawled out in the $100 dollar a night room on the coast,
smoking their spliffs and bleezies, young people doing what young people do in that code lango slango.
don’t know what they’re saying. know damn well what they mean.
words say and repetition and repetition and habit sure as rock remain.

warm breeze on another 68 degree night, totally typical paradisaical.
talking sweet nothing
no not nothing at all, many words as fall, even after they say it all, they didn’t say nothing at all.

and thats the problem my sweet adeline
because they think they’re saying right things while they’re feeling fine
faded in smoke and drunk on wine
but it aint the truth says me and you
its just gobbledygook show and tell
over fries and lies they fried
send those words to tell babe