Only those who are asleep
still believe in the American dream.
Nothing is as it seems.
Although we are still great,
our people full of the future,
our land has been overrun by righteous moochers.
They sit on their false thrones,
growing fat on our toil
while they poison our soil.
Our schools are a joke;
teachers teaching what to think instead of how.
We are all as captive as the sad meat cow.
There is still hope,
we can still be free
but first people have to see
that this world is in trouble,
our mother is in peril
for she's valued less than a stinking oil barrel.
If you have her heart and want to fight,
do be cautious,
the government has eyes that watch us.
Revolution won't be easy,
and I don't think we're ready
but unrest is sure growing steady.
Stand up for Lady Liberty,
cry out for freedom
because our soldiers need somebody to lead 'em.
I'm not burning bridges, I'm cutting ties
You start with pity, and then you despise
But, it's only because you now realize
That this pack of white lies and alibis,
These stories by which you were tantalized
To no surprise were just fantasized
By a mind over-worked, projected through to cold, pale, eyes.
I'm your cherished childhood plaything, barely given a single thought
Toss me with the rest of your keepsakes in your souvenir box
Just a container filled with the memories of the days you smiled a lot
Used to make you laugh more than anything, now I'm just where you stash your pot.
You bet your ass I cared alot, I loved you twice, you loved me not
It's sad, but true, no more flowers grew
I hope next season something blooms for you
But, for now I've given all I got, I've grasped these stems until the petals rot
I'm digging up the roots I grew and movin' on to soil another plot
don't try to chase me
now that the pace is changing
from a crawl into a trot
please, stop lying
don't say you're trying
when you've barely given a shot
my silver tongue did shine so untrue
every time just so I could protect you
from the worries that would plague your mind if you knew
exactly what it is that I've gone through...
but here's what I plan to do:
Grab a cup, drink it up, soak up the Sunday news
The end is near, you're the last one here, what have you got to lose?
So, just fill your lungs and laugh all night long; put on your dancin' shoes
Play your last song it'll not be long before your soul walks out on you
I just close my eyes and let all pass by; begin to pay my dues
Time goes fast, so I took my chance, dancing with my devil's to the Pale Moonlight Blues.
I'm under cardiac arrest, tried two times couldn't pass the test
At least when I'm at worst I can't be any less
At best my brain is pained by songs of protest
And you can bet I did my best to forget
I went through solitary confinement, momentarily confident
I'm impressed I haven't dies yet, on the contrary, I despise it
Why do I kick myself for providing the ropes by which my hands are bound
When I should just strike out and bite the hands that tied it
it's time to go...
I bet a fiddle of gold you can't save your soul; can't solve a mystery if you don't have a clue
Try as you might, you won't win a single fight until you learn how to lose
Oh, you'll never know until you're on your own what it's like to have the Blues
I've been there before, I can't take a second more, that much I know is true
So, just close your eyes and kiss all goodbye; it's time to pay your dues
As time burns to ash, so does your final chance
To dance with your devils to the Pale Moonlight Blues
Jimena Hubbard was a poor lovely boy
Who grew up in the countryside
Rocks in his fists
He squeezed them hard
His muscles did the twists
And now his hands quietly wave away mists
A fish out of water
He wandered with otters
With berries and kittens
The world was his fodder
Then Jimena Hubbard met Hummina Bubbard
And Hummina Bubbard is now Hummina
And Farina Hubbards
Through their old folks ponds
They swam and they ran
In their mouths, crabapples
And in their fists, rocks
They played in the dirt
And tied hair into knots
And Farina Hubbard
As grains do sway
Untied their knots
Now Jimena and Hummina
Rest in the soil
Three daisies in place
Where their love once toiled.
I had to wake up with the blues
Pulled myself outta bed, yeah
Put on my walking shoes
Went up on the mountain
To see what I could see
Whole world was falling
Right down in front of me
- Gregg Allman, sung by
For my families.
For my family.
For my home.
black boy, black boy,
we shot you --
in your small, shiny black shoes;
your tidy school uniform
white boy, white boy,
we will not shoot you --
in your big, broken black shoes;
your untidy school-form --
instead, we will not teach you
white boy, we will not teach you:
English is for black schools --
the jacarandas of Pretoria are dying;
the mimosas in the bushveld
have taken the Acacia tree's name
and beneath the soil,
the roots of South Africa are still
growing, exactly the same?
So concretey, these jungles
but not like this
Glass shards shoot up 45 stories
only to have tarp covered markets
populated by shouters
Oh, Powerpuff Girls on backpacks
And 10 dollar Gucci bags
these people have it made
Four blocks from the world stock exchange
these people have it made
You ain't had won ton noodle soup
Or chicken feet
Or shrimp stuffed eggplant
Or food from Chinese franchise Pizza Huts
which happens to be an escargot joint
What does that say about US?
hopefully not much
Red taxis between every other car
Double decker busses
more common than city pigeons
Still the city finds time for trees
whiskery ents rising out of
ancient volcanic soil
You would think it's a city full of sin
Seven million souls, what-
that's higher than I can count
Everyone here is cute and wrinkly
except for the young
These people have it made
In this city, you're expected to stay
home with mom and dad
As they get cute and wrinkly
you're to return the love
these people have it made
11 seated dinners
these people have it made
Here in this ancient city
the gravestones dot the hills
coat the hills
And then the cremation jars bury the hills
(yes, they're dead)
Here's how a Chinese name is structured:
[family name] [given name]
and then these names fade too
These people have it made
but it's alright.
We used to say
That leaves always fall
Into a place
Where the earth
Calls forth a love
A withering emotion
Where you and I
Shed tears to soil
And let it grow
Though forever it can not
Live to love enough
To bed I took, in habitual slumber,
cursive prayers die at my cynical tongue,
all pinned badges of the day cast-off
to the floor, only for my sorry soles to
impale upon, come morn. ‘Come morn!
I called, to the chasted walls;
‘come morn!’ I sang,
hoping to fill the thinned curtains
with a filter of light.
In oil paints, old dreams coloured themselves
in patient, kaleidoscopic hues. Though
withered of form, they delight in me,
promise to deliver in utero joys,
connection to the Great Mother;
all that was lost in the fall.
The fall of man,
so gravely reported, and so
limiting to humankind.
I fell. I fell to sleep as Romans did peace.
With grudge, with dissonance; mind-silence apparent
only upon the death of the day.
With stubborn regard, my ears tarried in vigil,
I awoke to each pine of the hallway,
each tremor of heart, pulse of thought,
and Lord of sound.
‘Come death!’ I sighed,
to my life’s rushing blackness,
‘come death!’ I cried, to my stars.
In cannabis, I attune, only to calm;
to bask in the light of some meadow-less dawn,
and in pains, I pray only for dullen thoughts,
to poison my days in some indolent mess.
And of Ávila, Teresa
shelters my mind. She comes to me
in sorry demise.
‘My child,’ she calls, voice echoed since,
‘fellow child,’ she pines, entrusted sphinx.
Spawn of Thebes, she riddles through centuries,
all panicked pores, all sickening spirals,
forgotten in the present, all-eternal.
A shepherd am I, amongst my thoughts,
she calls thus that I am not my mind,
rather, a chosen observer,
to be confused not upon the
idiocratics, more, ‘what is.’
A lowing at my window, she calls unto me
in reverberated tongue, nutritious tone,
a cyclone of holistic power.
Bright glimmer of light, she calls once more, ‘my child!’,
she cries, ‘my fellow child of the Lord!
Please, rain unto me your sorry state,
lack of appetite,
cooling plate. Oh, you that live so solemnly,
you who knows not of the arbour of life.’
I call not in terror and I call not in my fright,
upon the window, that ghostly glimmer,
she heals the walls in half-light, swimming
in opal reflections of ripples and chimes.
And, she is calling for beauty,
she is singing unto me,
‘come morn!’ she weeps,
‘come morn, and with it, the tidings,
of your blessed life to be!’
Stumbling, I trip over the apparition’s words,
she speaks not in life’s shadows and sinister plot,
but only in those that speak like a God.
In the awful haze of light-polluted skies,
auspicious streets and government plot,
her prophecies fair, but yet
‘Come now!’ I say, in no hope, ‘come
now,’ I say, an adult.
‘There’s no space for me here in this lifetime,
there’s no soil for my roots to embed,
in painful years past, I’ve been in sorrow,
and I’ll be expecting them in all the years, hence.
So what, if I’ll join the army,
or some other capricious,
All tributaries lead to the river,
as all humans to their torturement.’
Teresa, she radiated with colours,
and Amy, who lived within my chest,
they called out as one in my silence,
as a union, a conquest of the childhood mind,
to abolish the present tense.
As one, they sang unto me,
They sang, ‘be born!’
under the moonlit streets, ‘be born
to all that you are, and ever you could be!’
And from this dream I came out in denial.
From this dream, I appeared to awake. I awoke
to the song of the starlings, and to
the precious pleasure of life’s augment.
With this groggy thought I’ll admit that,
in separation I fell apart,
I call, ‘come out!
‘come out and greet me!
Old Eden, my eternal womb.
The union of mankind and nature,
and the union of our pasts combined.’
Every fiber of my body is on edge, seething with a burning urge to be alive.
More alive than this repetitive stasis that is Educational routine.
My blood thrums and sings with the desire and yearning for otherworldly adventures.
The uncontainable demanding within my soul that CRAVES more than a dull life set within the confines and standards of a society that has disbanded the thrill seeking pleasure that is and was the old world. Now we have to pay a small fortune in order to obtain a moment where we transcend grey and our colors blast and shoot through the spectrum in solar flare heartbeat pulses of excitement that dulls far too soon.
I want to taste sea salt and raindrops on my lips, grains of sand beneath my feet.
To feel every nerve in my body alight with the spark of something more.
To face the unknown, not in a city nor my home cowering for the remainder of my life.
But to claim my destiny with both hands, clutching my glaive firmly in battle stances while gazing unafraid into the eyes of my nemesis, my enemy. To duel it out on stormy seas, sails billowing, lifelines secured, braced upon the slick decks of pirate ships soaked with rain while torrents of wind lash at my body during a dangerous battle between lovers, demanding my downfall at the hands of nature but instead of falling to it I would prevail and arise. Where lightning cracks across the sky like a golden whip, where thunder roars in agony across the cosmos like Atlas holding up the weight of the sky.
Engaged in the throes of battle while the air is rich and pungent with the scent of steel and the satisfying clang of blades locked in combat. Sword against glaive, antagonist and protagonist.
To battle and seek, to pursue those who dare take whom and what I love. To become MORE. To transcend the fabric of dreams and turn all this into something tangible, to grasp it tight and shower the seeds of dreams into the soil of the real world, and to help it bloom into a reality I've wished for my whole life.
Instead of sitting around writing about how much more I long for. I don't want to be trapped in columns, in places at certain times.
To change the world, to alter my dull fate and the chance to make the stuff of my daydreams and night visions into more than just letters on a page. To whisper and weave the song of those worlds into the fabric of this twisted reality and watch as stardust mends the frayed edges.
Perhaps it is this fate, that my dreams never see the light of the midday sun
that there is not a strong enough conviction nor skilled weaver to bring about the change I long for.
We grow up in a world filled with fairy tales and books filled to the brim with stories to capture our imagination and you cant expect me to suddenly still be content and satisfied with the damnable grayness that is the black and white of our world that will never be filled with color.
And I will be doomed to write out worlds and cultures I can never touch and interact with, never will I be able to grasp the soil of the other worlds and exist within the places I make.
Never will we, of earth, trapped inside dull grey columns ever truly experience freedom.
Not even with our words for we cant even paint the sky a different color other than grey, and the ground beneath our feet will only ever be black. Despite the colors we think we see, they're not the colors we want. Just pale washed out shades of worlds we will never be a part of.
I am not the rose, nor the moss rose, nor the tulip.
I am no flower, and have no terrific colours or soft petals.
I do not bring smiles to face at first sight,
and no one will pick me for a lover.
I am merely the soil.
I am the one who gives it all away and expects nothing but to watch the flowers reach for the sky.
I am the moment between bulb and bloom,
the simple holder of roots and secrets.
I am where people bury shallow graves for themselves.
I am where beauty grows from and comes to die.
I am not the shore, nor the mountains.
I am no spectacular sight, and have no snow or ocean to greet me.
I do not seek kisses all through the day.
I am merely the rocks in your shoes.
I am the one who is hard to get rid of
and who forms a bond in all the places you never wanted me
I am the second half of a children's saying that strangely does break bones.
Long before Horus' exposure on its trunk
and the nailing of Jesus upon its grain,
rings have been added within the Tree
while people proclaim to hold the key
of salvation, a continually borrowed mythology
swallowed; a powerful sleeping pill
pulling the masses into slumber,
away from the obvious truth
that such supposed salvation
is a ticket far too easy to obtain,
a discriminatory damnation of souls
so blindingly righteous,
even the most vengeful, maniacal deity
would draw the line there.
So many people hand-out the easy tickets,
cut and light the tree --
a hypodermic injection of selfish memories
mixed into mortar for temples designated as sacred,
but the elements are desecrated by swirling sewers,
by shears amputating roots from the sky.
Too many people preach, judicate, proclamate,
hold signs pointing towards a cheap, polystyrene heaven,
while only a few walk the narrow path,
live the sacrifice because it feels right.
Again and again,
the ticket isn't so easy,
we must put aside our slumber-crutches,
stop watching the few carry the rest
upon their backs until bones creak and groan
from the weight of people waiting for salvation
to be handed to them.
27 years, a branch in the road, 46664 etched into its bark.
The forked doors opened,
a living, breathing gospel
brought down fences,
and even then the wood was made into crutches
for people to say,
"M will fix it, M will do this, M will do that,
M will save us, just wait and see."
But M is finally free, yes, he is free!
Free, but not lost to us,
always surviving as spirit-seeds.
We must no longer lean upon crutches,
instead purge the pill from our blood
and awaken into gardeners who water the seeds
within the soil of our souls,
before the vision withers completely,
and we remain only as husks
waiting to be hydrated by watering cans
held in hands too weak to lift the weight....
held in our own hands all along,
held in our hands all along.
December 7th/8th, 2013