Obnoxious smoker, you put the cough in cacophony,
but you're generous, hard toI dent what you offer me.
Sun dried and trapped within self fulfilling prophecy.
I trust you barely as far, as I can throw you up.
Big surprise, it didn't make past the teeth or tongue.
Sear the throat, scabs coat esophagus,
Which shade, of sweat, will stink enough?
© Cole Silvers
"silence is worse; all truths that are kept silent become poisonous.” ― friedrich nietzsche
like poking the hornet's nest with a stick, you are a rose with stems and thorns so thick,
your skin is protection from oppression, keeping the world out of your private channels
all of which are static with distorted voices only science can pry through your cacophony
any evidence of who you are, i couldn't find with years of knowledge, a indestructible ship
could speak more evidence about why it was annihilated, obliterated, disintegrated under
the ocean for months at a time without any current survivors, if we wanted to know how,
what, and why, we would have to be led directly to the source by holding your hand
there is flaws in the equation, there will be a position where i will be put out into light
there is no way out of my mind, like i'm schizophrenic, if kryptonite killed superman,
can it kill the infectious virus spreading like wildfire through my veins, can i stop
worrying about when i will finally break down and open up to someone?
I watched the rain pierce the concrete jungle
I watched the people moving with purpose
I saw the cat I continue to feed perched in my window
the smell of coffee lingers through the room and engulfs my nostrils
the sun is slowly starting to make its way above the horizon to greet me
I hear the busy cars and cacophony of sirens that seemed to never rest
I feel the vibrations the subway trains send up my spine as I wait for it to halt
I observe the girl pacing on the edge near the train "this one, no the next" until she decides not to jump
there is a beggar by the staircase people ignore without hesitation
there are musicians and artists trying to make a living
there was once a lady in high heels and fishnets but you don't see her anymore, apparently she was "asking for it" I'll never be quite sure what "it" was but I'm sure it wasn't rape
there is a businessman that wears a suit like it's his disguise, he won't be coming home to his wife tonight
there is a businesswoman trying to make living in a man's world
there are children at play in the park unaware of the worlds problems
there are two empty spaces only blocks apart where two great buildings once stood only to descend into ash
there is a police officer who visits these two empty spaces everyday and a surge of guilt and anger transcends through his body like an electric shock "if only I could make it up one more floor"
there is a widowed woman with a young daughter who also visits these spaces "your father put his life into his job"
there is a hot dog vendor on the side of the street who gives his leftovers to the ones who collect souvenirs to live in a shopping cart
one vast island known as the big apple filled with enough stories to last a billion generations
To Hushpuppy in the Bathtub
That the best I can do
Is offer a meager apology
“I’ll remember you”
I’m just a rich white boy
In the depths of corporate America
And my lone voice shouting out your name
In the cacophony of passing cars
Might not make it very far
But I’ll try anyway, Hushpuppy
it is said that
a prophet finds no honor
in his own country
their hard truths
are heard as a
threatening to melt
the caked wax
blocking the closed
intolerant ears of
once found no
in his homeland
his people driven
from their land
gobbling the land
people from villages
and regions they
since the dawn
spilling Zulu blood
into roiling rivers
petitions of the
the blood of
against the innocent
by corralling them onto
where rivers do not
flow, grass never grows,
game cannot graze;
only the dust doth blow
riddling the captives
with torments of
mocking the speakers
of mother tongues with
the fained eloquence
of bastardized Afrikaans
the dominion of the
and affirmed by exiling
a people from their land,
outlawing their language,
dividing the nations into
a fallacy of separate
destinies where a forgetful
history blessed with amnesia
will anoint the conquerors
with the spoils of abundance
stolen from the vanquished
Madiba spoke of these things
and was awarded a prison
cell for twenty seven years
but the hostages of feigned
justice are always destined
to be freed by the arrival
of an accepted truth
set free by the very words
prisons cannot contain truth
steel bars cannot imprison
the idea of divine justice
it slips through the smallest openings
like a wafting fragrance of the first day of spring
it saws away at the rust strewn steel bars
like the surest movement of a master carpenter’s arm
it melts the thickest links of iron chains
in the fiery forges that burn in the hearts
of all freedom loving people
the truth of justice
is born and takes flight
on the wings of history
covering the globes
nesting in the most
and mean estates
on God’s good earth
truth and reconciliation
can never be separated
planted together to grow
healthy nations and
trust and restoration
Madiba, you always
found honor with
the salt of the earth
the children of light
who seek to dispel
the darkness of
we continue to
walk your way
guided by your
we take the first steps
asking liberators to join
with oppressors, pairing
in a magnanimous walk
along wholesome pathways
perceiving the buena vistas
of reconciled communities
of peace, equality
and justice for all citizens
I caught a fleeting glimpse of Madiba
as he rolled by in the Canyon of Heros
showered under a June blizzard of confetti
and a resounding acclimation of love.
I was a plebe inhabiting a lower floor
Broadway office, yet my station blessedly
brought me closer to Madiba. As he passed
I was moved by his miraculous smile and felt
the colossal reverberations of his waving arm
triumphantly hailing the sweet freedom of
liberation all hostages of feigned justice
exude in the vindication of divine justice
enraptured in the joy of affirmed truth.
we are enriched
and blessed for
the time you walked
the good fight
for we shall resume
the climb to
the next mountaintop.
Well done Madiba
Rolihlahla “Nelson” Mandela
7/18/18 - 12/5/13
Ladysmith Black Mombazo
Holding me firm, I can feel it incarcerating me.
With my ankles bruised from carrying the same heavy chains, day by day.
Chains, that will keep hurting my ankles with every step I take.
I can hear them squeak, tearing my tympanum with every drag.
Reminding me remorselessness that I am one more slave.
Working under its rules, shaping my life with my every breath.
Punishing me with all my memories and rewarding me with an unknown future.
At night it laughs spitefully seeing that it has caught me in its timeless web of an insomniac hex.
And in the morning it plays the same joke seeing that it has caught me in an eternal doze.
I wake up , following the ritual it has for me, slapping me in the back with its whip declaring its power over me, as my owner.
At 7:00 am I wake up indoctrinated by a false faith" Thank You 'God' for this new day ( I thank a 'God' I do not know a 'God' I do not follow)" I suddenly feel confuse.
7:30 am; I shower.
7:40am; I choose my outfit, one in particular that will disguise my insecurities.
7:50am; I have breakfast. My palate already knows the taste, and it protests intensely for a new tang.
8:00am; I walk out of my house, feeling the wind through my body silencing the cacophony of the chains and the beeping of the time clock they hold.
With every beep, I realize I can be late. I rush.
9:00am; I start my ritual, managing papers in an office full of sick people, just like me. Moored by their own chains to their own sorrows, with different time clocks and slaved by the same owner.
4:00pm; I plead it to go faster, to show me mercy. It laughs.
7:00pm; It frees me from my work routine, I thank it before it slaps me in the back again.
8:00 pm; I'm home the chains feel looser now, and I have a break.
9:00pm; I eat dinner same flavor, my palate prepares to taste the same.
10;00pm; It orders me to go to bed, to laugh again about by insomnia and wake me up with no pity.
It doesn't care about what I need, I go under its rules.
It threatens me everyday with my memories and it frightens me with an unknown tomorrow.
And, I only have 24 hours each day,60 minutes in each hour and 60 seconds in each minute to do what the calendar of life has for me .
I was convicted with a human felony, and I am currently serving a life sentence in this time machine.
I am cursed by time and my challenge is to defeat procrastination and monotony.
Rain is pouring
They are the rhythm
To the thoughts in my head
Sings their own melody
With roaring in the distance
It sounds like
Nature is distressed
Letting out its anger
In a monstrous manner
Well how about the monsters
That lies in my head
There's no way they'll leave
They'll just drown me
They'll sweep me away
If I were a sound
I would be the sound
the cacophony of life
but ever present
whipping through the trees
in the distant sound
of far away places
If I were an animal
I would be a mouse
so as not to be found
but living with you
in the wall
anywhere you won't look
I don't wish to be seen
so I scurry
living off the scraps
of my housemate
If I were a number
I would be the number
two thin lines
that are ignored when factoring
lost in the scramble
to scribble down notes
two lines that are
but the same
and sometimes distant
If I were a person
I would be the person
in the back
hair in my eyes
so no one sees
the truth that lies
That I am
the number eleven
that I would be
in the back
But I'm not
because you put a hand up
to block the wind
bought a cat
to kill the mouse
were dividing by two
so didn't need eleven
and looked back
at the person there
And the sun is rising.
A crisp winter dawn is giving birth to this great city.
Rays of light kissing one way signs with promises amidst the building chaos.
The ear-spitting labour song gathers momentum and breaks into a cacophony
of horns panting, rails screeching, breaks shushing,
crowds pushing, rushing to the sound of can I get a hoagie?
a bagel, black coffee, eggs
scrambled into the pulsating clouds
light with smiles and heavy with the fuming of exhaust pipes
contracting to the crowning of car bonnets and head lamps and taxi cab signs
dancing in a place, to a pace and a rhythm constructed, conducted
by a lone woman in blue with benign brown eyes
leading a symphony of brake light beating, feet pounding, bus groaning,
venders sighing, newborns crying, school bus squealing,
pedal revving, fingers drumming, foot tapping pedestrians building
to erupt in a crescendo of a man asking to buy a cigarette for a dollar
and refusing to accept it for free.
To a heavy building door held open by a New York giant inviting me in;
welcoming me to the raw, ragged, rich, beautiful carnage
of the afterbirth.
It’s been a long day
I’m sitting in the recovery room, waiting for a late evening case to start
The PACU nurses tend to two patients at opposing sides of the room
Familiar cacophony of sounds – monitors softly speaking, informing the staff about their charges
Heartbeat, pulse oximeter timbre, quiet respiratory alarm
It’s my 7th case, I’m starting to fade
The sounds are relaxing, soothing.
All is well
Suddenly I hear the disconjugate beeps of the two heart monitors
Draw together, until
For just a few precious seconds
These two total strangers
Completely unaware of one another
Share a pulse – their hearts beating in perfect sync – the two sounds indistinguishable
A beautifully symmetrical moment, almost lost
In the next second, as if it hadn’t happened, their hearts diverge - once more strangers
one to one another
unaware of an incredibly intimate moment shared
Sitting there, waiting for the case
An instant in the course of history
Where, for one fleeting breath,
Humanity’s rhythm converged
Billions of hearts in time, a nerve impulse propagated across the planet
before scattering to the winds
A potent event, possibly one of many that even
In our modern world, still remains in the mystical