My good congregation, I take the podium!
I have been asked to speak--to preach!
Where are you demons, devils, acrimonious angels?
Why do you submit yourself to actions so odious?
Stand up! Do not allow yourself to be leeched
of your life! Do not suffer the unfaithful!
No! I will not allow my flock to be misled!
I will not stand by as these good souls are drained!
So, rise! Cast your burdens back upon the bastards!
Throw them like stones; let their sins be bled!
Who has had enough of being perilously pained?
Who is fed up with with all their dastardly disasters?
Now! Now is the time to undo the oppression!
Show them your anger--unleash the frustration!
I ask, who among you is without disdain?
To Hell with them! Let's teach them a lesson!
Our lives are ours! Deny them castration!
You have nothing to lose, and everything to gain!
(I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it.)
I swallow it
and the words you deserved to be served I
choked them down like
Maybe they will make me better.
But the better part of me was mixed bitter in so many sermons I so easily spit at others.
I’ll save you from my presumption.
Prescription: hold your peace.
A good friend with a basset-hound face is on his feet
The rest of us are weak
as newborn puppies,
from the late hour, the numbing glory in our lungs
But, mostly from laughter.
This young man is a connoisseur of altered states, an apprentice butcher, and one of the chosen few who breath music in and out effortlessly
And he's preaching
Three minutes before,
he had been happily day dreaming
Three feet from the floor
with the boob-tube beaming
The man on the set shows us how to stir-fry chicken
Our mouths water, but we're content to sit.
But with the fire coming up that glass pipe
and setting his boiler to churn along feverish
He caught an insight
or it snared him, like a spiderweb across a peaceful hiking path
On his feet
He was beginning to see connections
And had to share them with someone
I'm a limp doll at this point, fully immersed in the body-high
Thoughts are glacial, movement glacial
Oh, my friend.
You're talking to the wrong audience
We can't hope to see it as you do.
But he keeps on keeping on.
And tells us a thing or two.
Is like sex.
As our laughter dies down to a dull roar, he continues
The speeds and heats and intensities can all vary
to give you countless subtle differences.
But the true constant is care
Loving attention to the finest detail.
His brows furrow, his toes test the fibers of the rug
and he glances back up, and I imagine a podium in front of him.
Or maybe it's like Jazz. He says.
We learn, or glean out, how things are supposed to happen
But in the moment, the twanging instant
Beautiful things will themselves to exist
and they defy all well-laid plans.
Dig that fucking razor DEEPER into your wrists.
Practice what you preach, and show us you're not afraid.
Don't just scratch with a pin and claim to slash them.
Practice what you preach. Practice what you preach.
I'm so sick of all the positive crap
You can do it
I want to scream "Stop!"
It's such a joy to be alive
A new day, a new opportunity
"Go to Hell!"
I've been there
Into the positive, inspirational hype
Pump myself up
To be let down again
One thing I'm positive about
Is that bad things happen
You can count on it
Don't preach to me
I'll never feel joyous and free
We are here to preach the dream,
to share the good word
of passionate fantasy
and the desire for happiness.
We are messengers,
of the things that help us
reach the moon and back.
We are slaves to art,
and the emotions that inspire it.
We live to create
and destroy that
which hinders us.
We are here to preach the dream.
The dream to be
who we want to be;
the lust for satisfaction
We breathe to make others
We are the apostles of innovation,
rising from dust
where light once shown
to shine light forth
into obsidian hearts and ashen souls.
We are bandages for the bleeding,
braille for the blind,
and cotton blankets
for the faint of heart.
We are for those who need us,
and for those who don't know
what they need.
We are poets,
And with our pencils and pens,
brushes and hands,
guitars and hearts,
we will call to arms
all of those who
have ever felt something
move like we have.
We are a romantic tragedy,
an exuberant atrophy.
We are anonymously outspoken.
I don't think I'll fall asleep tonight
because I know you are all preaching for someone to do something
somebody do something,
it's too late,
and even after we all know it did happen,
we were never around when it was happening
Half of you posting statuses on your smartphones now, saying,
"Seriously, it's never cool to bully"
were bullying me yesterday.
I'm sorry no one here helped enough
I'm sorry you never asked all of us.