Oh, we the prosperous and arrogant Baby Boomers are the progeny of the Greatest Generation. In our arrogance we take credit for the civil rights movement, ending the war in Vietnam, the sexual revolution, and FOX "News." Of all the things we take credit for, the one small thing we should take credit for, but don't are Millennials. This younger generation has become our generation's greatest whipping boy. Everything these pierced, tattooed, gender nonconforming, technology addicted, and Global Warming fear mongers do makes our Preparation-H infused Depends steam! Millennials disrespect the socio-economic statis quo we've worked so hard to disguise as a fair and just society. Those darn student debt burdened youngsters constantly disrespect our hard work by ripping apart the thin illusionary state of equality we've created revealing the ugly, but very real social inequality that lies beneath the surface. They question how we can pursue the American Dream in our big homes and plush beds when there are those who don't have beds at all.

We the Millennials have somehow inherited the fuck ups of our grandparents. We've been left with a world that can only be described as a trainwreck in front of a failing nuclear reactor on top of an earthquake. The Boomers have messed things up so bad, instead of Millennials, we should be called th,e K-Y Generation because we're well and truly dry fucked. Due to inheriting a failing world, we should have been prescribed Xanax at birth. We're not the snowflakes Boomers have labelled us. Face it Boomers have handed us a shit show and given us only a spoon to dig our way out. Boomers can take credit for whatever they like, but racism, discrimination, war, and the sexual revolution still remain. So we argue Boomers have been mislabeled as well. If a name should speak only truther, Boomers should actually be called the, Almosts. They almost ended discrimination, they almost proved peace was better than war, and they almost won the sexual revolution (which has become a war of attrition). The Almosts were so spoiled by the prosperity of their parents that they started fights, but figured they'd done enough when the bong water dried and everyone realized that patchouli oil smells like ass. So, they cut their hair, finished college, and instead of fighting the Man, they replaced the Man. Anti-war activists would become insanely wealthy by investing in the military industrial complex and label themselves Reagan Democrats. Apparently war just swell if it lined your pockets and there was zero chance of being drafted. That classic Who song was right. The new boss is the same as the old boss. Of course, they kept the delusion that they were rebels by continuing to attend Grateful Dead concerts. Of course in the name of nostalgia, these concerts reek of patchouli oil. The only real difference is instead of scoring weed, the concert goers score cheap, smuggled Canadian Viagra. The vibe is still the same and the music still SUCKS.

We the Gen Xer's...Fuck, what were we talking about again?

Two great beasts, ruled by enmity, and ire,

The Red, the White: champions eternal.

Full-burning with ice, filled with coldest fire:

Diabolical rage, depths infernal.

The invaders come: Angle, Saxon, Jute.

Merlin seeks for the One: Arthur, the King.

The finest songs, made for harp and for lute,

Of golden days tell: but also the sting…

Lust, and betrayal: and tears for what’s lost.

The Table is sundered. Camelot falls.

Mordred’s defeated: but Pyrrhic the cost.

The Sword is surrendered. Avalon calls.

Centuries pass - still they wrestle, those drakes,

Till dawn comes again: and Arthur awakes.

On rainy days like these, I like to sit, cross-legged, on the balcony of my apartment and watch the rain create ripples in the empty flower pot. I had planned to put some tomato plants in this pot, but watching the rain slowly fill it up, day by cloudy day, I started to realize that this emptiness was important to me.

I dress myself with their clothes every week. Five pairs of neatly folded suits to blend me into the lives of the busy. I walk among them, work among them, and converse among them, but my way of life, increasingly rare in this world, is foreign to many of them. The images around them, the voices around them—even the way the world is fed to them—is filled with the desire for accumulation. I wonder if the happiness that they accumulate is just another way of seeking a temporary peace. Like the clouds above, the cycle continues to sustain the lives of many. What would the world look like if there was less? A drop of water lands in the pot. Would a world of less look barren and filled with suffering passively accepted? I stand up.

A single plate, a single bowl, and a single pair of chopsticks sit on the floor next to one worn mat. Rice and stir-fried cabbage await me for dinner. As I enter my kitchen, the steam rising from the cooking rice is comforting. It reminds me of childhood cooking escapes with my ever busy family. I wonder if there can ever be a compromise between emptiness and fullness. Are they truly meant to be at opposing war with each other? Can my way of life exist without the fullness, the goal-orientated, and the ambitious world of movement and materialism? I look at my modern kitchen, with its ventilating hood and its softly humming fridge. Is life truly worse off if their race for more meant I could have more of my peace?

I take the lid off of the pot, and I check inside. Still wet, so I place the lid back on. Outside, the ambulance passes by, roaring down the streets in urgency. A hundred years ago, death would have reached the victim before any such doctor could have arrived. I take out the left over cabbage and position my knife. Each downward motion is sturdy and final, the wooden board beneath sustaining each blow. At the same time, I allow myself to think, and I realize the victim would be fighting off its own body, an ally turned upside down by the years of stress and malnutrition. Chop. Poverty and suffering hide beneath the smiles plastered on screens everywhere. Chop. A never ending cycle for the pursuit of what? Chop. Happiness that can be found anywhere but so often overlooked. Chop. Is it even worth trying to balance such worlds by entangling with the unhappy price of progress? Chop.

The cabbage is ready. I take a single piece of garlic, slicing each piece with awareness, and with some oil, I let the chemistry do its work. I turn on the ventilator, and then turn the pieces around with my spatula. Soon enough, the cabbage is merged with the garlic. My life is not pure emptiness yet it is not pure fullness, so can I ever say that one is better than the other when I question if there even is two parts? I check the rice, and it is done, so I turn the flame off. I give a handful of salt and pepper to the cabbage. The cabbage soon follows.

I pick up my bowl and plate from the living room, and I place the cabbage and rice into their respective homes. I bring them back to the living room, and I see the sun is now beginning to shine. I hear laughter outside as I pick up my chopsticks. The children are playing in the park. The birds are singing with the . With a little

bit of rice and a leaf of cabbage together, I breath in the simple aroma and breath out with emptiness. One world, I muse. What would that look like? Just one.

There's a siren

roaring in the

dimly lit heart

of the cold dark,

and in the morning

without a warning

the lovely tulip buds

by the flaking white

partial picket fence

are uncomfortably

pressed by a tall

imbalanced tower

of odds and ends

hurried to the curb,

hardly resembling

the ensemble of Life

that once was, busied,

behind closed curtains

where nice neighbors

didn't see it, all smiling

blindly and so politely

just the days before,

in name of brotherly

ever-loving-pro-gress

the now up 'n coming

East side would take

another L, for Today,

tacked upon the storm

fiberglass screen door

of seemingly Middle

class Threshold was

another very important

Public Notice with its

blood warming advert:

Occupants Evicted---

---By Order of Police.

03.11.2023

Clash of Culture challenge @markysparky