Only a matter of time
Is what I muttered to myself
For the better part of a week now
But that day has come
That day has come
And no one knows but me
And you
But you really knew all along
Didn't you?
Holidays tend to spell the end for me
And the writing on the walls is the same color as the warning lights I ignored for months
No one knows but us
No one knows but us
And only I know what these nights can do to me
Blasting Dead Kennedys to write this poem
Carve my doubts and solace into walls
I warned the both of us
but we were too young and proud to listen
We were warned
And tonight
If the devil goes down to Georgia
He will take Sherman with him
But the hand of war is here
And I can only keep it out of my heart for so long
State lines are prison walls
Only if you want them to be
An incarceration in my mind
Solitary confinement in my head
My heart beats like a gavel
Darling I'm here for life

Somewhere now cars dance on the highway
All of my heroes long asleep under dirt or drifting around with the dust
I sit on the floor of my room
Drinking water that has sat on my desk for a day
Beside me sits "Ode to Common Things" by Pablo Neruda
My room is filling to the brim with common things
Like clothes I either never wear or wear too much
Books never read
Chalk and safety pins

Lately the inability to write has left me feeling a lot of dread
My inability to write comes from my inability to know what to say which comes from feeling really really far down that no ones really listening or caring
My time is split between library aisles, folk punk music, wild poet friends, the Spanish Civil War and talking to a girl who lives in Georgia
I'm here looking into mirrors only to see a different person each day
So I take pictures of each stranger and put them on the Internet for friends to decipher
But I won't be getting any answers tonight
I fall asleep under enough covers for now
I fall asleep in the silent nights of December

I take deep breaths inches away from the pillow
I take deep breaths to center myself
I am here
I am now
But have I forgotten who I am?
   Am I the boy who went to New York on a weekend trip and visited MacDougal street and Washington Square park and didn't see a single folk singer?
   Who ate a date cookie in Chinatown and a cannoli and little Italy because it felt right and good at the time
   Am I the Woody Guthrie Pete Seeger wannabe who asked the audience to sing along to a song they didn't know and no one sang but you didn't care because the words were yours yet you didn't write them?
   Who freshman year read On The Road and Howl and told himself he would be a poet and saw beauty in the world and thought about all the people with beating hearts
   Who sophomore year got his heart smashed against the pavement but decided not to blame himself for convenience sake and is still reeling from his poor choices
   Who took a trip with friends to the Ohio river and held rocks in his pocket because he was prepared to fight his way out if he had to
   who fed his own delusion that he would ever fight his way out
    who lied to himself that he had the spine to fight
   Am I the one who read Siddhartha and vowed to be better and looked toward a golden and eternal time where the words would be simple
   Who cried at Ginsberg who cried at Wolfe and who cried at the Bible because he knew what things were holy
   Who drank tea to center himself who ran to keep himself in shape who had a good time because the world was full of love

Or am I nothing more than what I am now
Breathing inches away from my pillow
Breathing to center myself
So I can be here
So I can be now

I woke up the other morning
And when I rose from my bed I stepped
Into a puddle of enlightenment
That had poured from my ears
And pooled on the floor
From the night before

Webster's dictionary contains a definition for freedom
But I will never read it
The Constitution mentions justice
But I'm not sure if anyone knows what that means
One of my biggest fears is a people's revolution without any humanity
Any great revolution must be an act of humanity

One day we won't bite the hands that feed us
Because the hands that feed us will be our own
Most mornings I have coffee for breakfast
I like the coffee pitch black and too strong to stomach
I like my coffee so strong that the truth is easier to swallow
I am no true revolutionary
I'm a middle class white boy from the suburbs  
Born the day Malcolm X died
31 years later
I have no more that $200 in the bank
I still live with my parents
I'm a poet who is afraid of running out of words
I'm a beat wannabe who's never hitched the highways and has never seen California
I'm a *** with a job
I'm a punk with a tie
I'm a lefty folk singer who believes in God

I am no true revolutionary
But at this point we have had enough of those
I am a man with fire in his blood
Child of John Brown and Joe Hill
The wayward ghost of Tom Joad
I am incredibly tired

If enlightenment is clarity
And clarity is being honest with yourself
I am enlightened
These hands have worked
This skin has sweat
This tongue has spoke
This man has bled
I have sung the songs that come from the deepest depths of the human heart
And the day will come when I write my own
I am no true revolutionary
But my heart beats the revolution

I remember when I was a poet
Crafting honest stanzas from a fire in my soul
Now I'm just a ***
Casting words into the ocean hoping to get a bite

I remember when I was a folk singer
Carl Sandburg-type, singing about long dusty roads and hard traveling and weeping willow trees
Now the guitar sits most days in my closet and all I ever end up singing is a cry for freedom

I remember when I was a hipster
I bought hats and loved obscure bands and couldn't wait to grow up
But now

I don't know who I am anymore
Siddhartha taught me that life is transient but I was never told I would get to a point where I don't know what I have become
I was once a lover
Late night texts and whispered words and quiet appreciation
I was once an artist
I used to be a dreamer
I had ideas that didn't weigh me down
But I realize that they lacked weight because they lacked substance
They were pretty and felt good but they wouldn't do anyone any good
I still pray every night because I still believe someone is listening
I still believe in life after death even if it sometimes scares the **** out of me
I remember dying metaphorically and waking up literally 7 or 70 times
I have gotten mad, sad, quiet, scared, elated, and everything a person can get
I am a new man
But I still listen to Bob Dylan
I am a new man
I've shot a gun before and I'll sure as hell do it again
I am a new man
I have never cried at a funeral but not from lack of trying
I am a new man
I make the same mistakes as before and sometimes I'm not sorry
I'm a new man
But I still blow a kiss to Ginsberg if I get a chance
I'm a new man
And I will take it easy
But sure as hell I'm going to take it

What can I add that isn't already there?
What have I said that really needed to be?
What drove me to write poetry outside of Steinbeck, Ginsberg, and you, Thomas
I have seen endless rivers
I have had my fill of stones leaves and unfound doors
My roots are of a shallow depth
My branches do not reach as yours did
My inspiration is a well run dry
My words are saliva on sidewalk
Is there a fate for me in California?
Is there a place more kind than home?
Is there a life for those who seek angels made of stone?
Thomas you saw an America I never could
You reached great heights I may never touch
But Thomas your legacy rests in my heart
I will never forget you
Angel child of Asheville
Wild man of words and words
Pages and pages
Thomas the river will always welcome you home

I haven't written in weeks
And when I did before the words read empty
As they tend to do
Again I find myself sitting alone
A table for one facing the wall
Lost in the sea of a college campus
Hundreds of miles away LRADs blast away  protesters protecting sacred land
Stock prices unthinking and unfeeling
Are obsessed over by men in suits who won't have to worry about if they get to eat tonight
On my arms I carve the words I learned in a women's studies class freshman year
"The personal is political"
Personally I am desolate
Disillusioned with anything I've ever had to say
Unable to bring myself to say more
Politically I am livid
In my veins are the Sacco and Vanzetti electricity
So I spit
Look to the ground
and walk
With a look of righteous anger
And I read
Collected works of Huey Newton and an article about Marxism and Class

When the personal and the political meet I feel hopeless
Disoriented and disillusioned
Not two halves at war but two puzzle pieces desperately trying to fit
I think of a heaven after I die
While advocating for a heaven on earth for everyone
I want to stand and fight
While I feel uncomfortable speaking up in class
I don't believe there is freedom in a free market
But what do I really know about it anyways?
Freedom and hope and art and love
Words that swim around in my head
They lack solidity
I can't grasp them
The meaning drips out of my ears as if they were bleeding
I can't fall asleep at night because I keep coughing
I think about Woody Guthrie
Singing about the powers of the working class and dreaming of what America could one day become
I think of his better world and I can console myself with the ringing of guitar in my ears
I think about Pat
Looking for times worth living in whatever car or house he lives in
Breaking windows to redemption if not freedom and holding on with all that's left
I think about myself
One year of poetry under my belt
Still struggling with what I want to say
Centuries of politics in my head
Still struggling with who I want to be
Personal and political are more than just words to me