Not a person to talk to,
Not a soul to trust,
A this solitary rate,
the hearts gate surly shall rust.
So again,
-its me and my pen
for these particularly peculiar days
When lightning strikes,
-the mind fights,
or when the pen has something more insightful to say.
People wear stickers because they are too afraid to be branded.
The impermanency, the versatility.
No more many men of conviction. Just dissention,
where their symbols can merely be peeled off and replaced.
Not worn in fear of letdown nor betrayal.
But fashioned to please, to be ahead, to be behind the lead.
The swapping of stickers in a way quite sickening.
A practice followed by those always needing to sell something
they themselves refuse to buy.
Stickers can be sides, each beyond a line,
yet with all the lower ranks kicking up dust, by deserting like the tide.
Barely a sword drawn, hardly a tail to find.
And then the avengers
Boredom, pain and malcontent seem the only ingredients
to birth those of conviction.
But as a single particle can bring life or death
when added to the equation
so do the words from the biggest of mouths.
Thoroughbreds on a course, eyes limited, nostrils a fire
Stampeding their voices over the terrain inhabited by those
who unlike themselves are actually affected.
Or the mules whose hard lives, contribute to self righteous ideals
hard to drop.
Soldier of god, patriot, the fanatical, the pawns of politics,
all in all nothing but fools with different chemistry.
Jaded and hated, for a reason, corrupted and used
Forever in no short of supply with the races always full,
of those near blind, by their speed to react.
Numbered and sponsored they all race to eventually stop
in the place they had started.
Running on empty and bearing stickers still.
There’s nothing wrong with being productive,
if you have to be productive.
Yet when every second of the day
and as every day fades away,
and at years end it leads you to say
-where has it all gone?, then something is wrong.
And what is “have to”?
Is it similar to having to breath,
or is it you know not another way.
Programmed. A sorrowful single current sea,
so fearful to just be.
A stubborn pillar erect and steadfast yet with fleeting purpose
amongst the rubble of the magnificent atrium that was to exist.
We are supposed to sleep eat and shit our days away.
That’s why we are here.
Why must we feel guilty for a gift given.
Why must we bring hell to everywhere we find heaven
Would you tolerate a child’s refusal to play with the toy you gave him
When it only seems to fills him with fear.
The child with worry in his brow,
will he use this toy as efficiently as possible.
Will his small hands find the always urgent desire to improve it.
Will he find away to carry it with him always,
not as a toy but as a burden.
Surly you wish not the puzzled puppy eyes looking to you.
For the simple joys he shuns always getting February from May
and to the natural world he becomes an orphan.
And what would you have to say to this boy?
A sympathetic speech to derive the difference from being driven
and driving your life away.
How often the tragedy when a gift leaves one confused.
The words you leave that troubled child
may be the same your god has for you.
Ah, that sea between you and we
What I am to you, and you to me
One of plain symbolism, old ideas and T.V
And I, of relics, abstract sentiment and poetry
Oh suffer so, my values and curiosity
A lifeless intangible unseen
In your psychology
A character, a play I ponder
Your dichotomies
Unfound and indescript I exist
Beneath your society
As two universal polarities
We’re just ghosts, salt air
The dew on each other’s daisies
My life is like the quiet old nursing home I pass by on my way
With the ambulance on standby each and every day
For death is the only thing that could possibly be eventful
The stale stagnated and repetition
There is no growth here, only decay
I’m merely waiting for death in this old town of mine
Where your goals and dreams may be abandoned haphazardly
Left faded and forgotten in the mind
Drinking and drugging as the sick
Deciphering our dementia
Are old tricks and cheap kicks
As a person I cease to grow
And my soul atrophies, though
I have no need to be a somebody
But I will not condemn myself so early
To living the life of a nobody
So I continue to walk on
In a solace song
The cold branches left upon the yellowed grass
Tight and only capable of snapping
How can I go from life’s stick to sapling?
I’d rather be a palm tree dancing in the wind
Yes above a playground that my life should be
No more bronzed heads of people in my history
Just smiling strangers
On my swing, my slide
Then off into the world gone by
I used to feed ducks as a child
Now I feed debts
Big nasty swans that I could avoid then
Surround me now
These trees I once climbed for fun
I now scale to get away
When your joys become necessities
You’re dieing.
From way above the earth things seem black and white
Land, streams, rivulets, in marsh are cookie clear-cut and designed
Things are smaller at a distance, as well my resistance
I look at it all from twenty thousand feet above
And from there I make my decisions on love
For ones life is but a pattern, like that earth we tread on
When stuck in the tall grass. The clarities gone
Keep that head in the clouds, as long as your looking down
It’s not impersonal, but sound
And from where I see, we’re bound
Like rivulets through trees, we’re designed to be
Though it seems unlikely, you have to learn to see
It all makes more sense from above
Looking down from up, its easier to find love
Even 20,000 feet above
I feel so grounded with out my love
I never felt so low
Until the time you flew my way, and continued to go
Tell me you are willing to see
What I have found to be
From 20,000 feet above
Our puzzle piece reality.
I read historical novels.
Fantasy books and poetry
One for the mind, one for the heart and one for the soul
I write sarcastic essays
Narrative and bad poetry
One for the mind, one for the heart, and one for the soul
I watch public broadcasting
Football, and the ocean rising
One for the mind, one for the heart and one for the soul
And yet, it’s quite amazing
After all these things I divide
One for the mind, one for the heart and one for the soul
I have
But one woman
One for the mind, one for the heart and one for the soul
It’s that time of year
Chocolate, flowers and teddy bears
Self-conscious fear
Diamond commercials filled
With melodramatic tears
As a man your love and devotion are weighed
As the ladies get paid
To get laid
For a few days
we feel quite poor
having no one to go to Hallmark for
But these are the minds tricks
that put track marks
on a mans dick
So don’t go looking or love
Don’t go looking for sex
It’s heroin and that’s why
There’s track marks
on your dick
Just got to let those things happen
and stay true
it far easier to relax
and let love and lust
find you
Go ahead
And spread yourself like jam
to sweeten the world
but don’t rush to hand your world
to one single girl
Every hole can be a bear trap
And every smile a guillotine
It’s all too easy to loose a head
so take heed to what I said
Don’t go looking or love
Don’t go looking for sex
Its heroin and that’s why,
There are track marks on your dick
I see a dark sun rising
Though we don’t know it
For our eyes
Have been darkened in prior
And our lost saviors
Ideals gone
The mouths of truth beheaded
By the blade of lies
Gripped by fear
As the bells of history
Lull a lone warning
Heard by none
The strangers to disaster
Folly the future
And unborn
The error of good fortune
Lacking knowledge of
Misfortune
A steep narrow to slip
When grip has gone to arrogance
Time and god may be inept
With what could be done
Under the dark
Dark sun.
What is it that one fears?
The spider’s steps to death
Creeping precise
Accurate with every spring of the sword like legs
Or, the web of things unknown
Paralyzing with the peculiar and unpredictable
Left without mobility
As fate finically closes forward
Perhaps the fortuitous fangs
Instilling the ominous fright of oblivion
Crushing ones will, diminishing the soul
Becoming merely substance and a afterthought
So what is it that you fear?
The ability to step where you do not
For you cannot, comprehend
The venom
The end of the known path
- Or when all paths find their end.
