Their footprints are
deep from carrying
cannons to
gun-
fights.

It is the little things we see
that turn us into giants
one day I'll be
a giant too
and so will you.

We can gather moss or rolling stones,
each have homes,
a place to be
but not in this society,
ignore them if you will but
they're still there.

The cemetery is full of dreams,
unfocused light
screams in the night where
giants fight,
stones and moss and
one more loss.

Every separation
that I have ever known has grown into
a giant too, as if the giants always knew
what I did not.

In the inner of my inner self
I reach up and take a bit more
off the shelf
where my heart beats
where each end meets the beginning and
the beginning is the start of the end and
continue.

This,
the giants always knew
One day,
I'll be a giant too

Doesn't it bother anyone else: that by simply participating in our current culture of mindless, resource exhaustive consumer capitalism, we're directly perpetuating a model of conduct that will eventually lead to the loss of our habitat, and the decline of our species; one whose remorseless self indulgence now guarantees a rise of global sea level up to 10 feet?

Doesn't it bother anyone else: that we live in a society run by people who we don't know, who don't care about us, but only their own short term gain, regardless of the negative impact that their actions may and often do have on entire generations of people, present and future?

Doesn't it bother anyone else: that our economy thrives on war, and has since the 1940's, that the total for defense contracts this year has been $253,802,074,353, and that 19% of our federal budget goes to defense, with a meager 1% funding education, that we have a president who calls our congress "ceremonial," wins the Nobel Peace Prize, and then unilaterally commits acts of international terrorism without breaking a sweat?

Doesn't it bother anyone else that we're on camera all the time, that our government spies on all of our communications 24/7 as well as those of other countries, or that people who reveal these injustices are shut up in prisons for life, tortured, or exiled?

Doesn't it bother anyone else that our police force is increasingly hostile to innocent people, that they carry AR-15 assault rifles to peaceful protests, and that they constantly abuse their power? I have never ONCE consented to search, but has that ever stopped them?

Doesn't it bother anyone else that our lives are essentially meaningless in the grander scheme of things, that we all dance like puppets, and jump through hoops like dogs, working at jobs we don't like for people we can't stand, to earn money that often barely supplants our basic needs?

Doesn't it bother anyone else?
Doesn't it bother anyone else?
DOESN'T IT BOTHER ANYONE ELSE?!?!?!?

When I carefully consider the curious habits of dogs
I am compelled to conclude
That man is the superior animal.

When I consider the curious habits of man
I confess, my friend, I am puzzled.

He retreats into his home, and
Now his ritual's begun,
He briefly questions his decisions, and
The person he's become.

Now he brings to birth, an orange flame
Beneath a tarnished silver spoon.
His eyes fixate on glints of light,
Which penetrate his living room, and
Flood into his windows, from the
Autumn evening's harvest moon, and

He looks down into the spoon, he
Smiles, and gives a simple nod, and
Now with unremitting reverence, he is
Praying to his God, and begging:

"Sanctify me, rectify me,
"Tranquilize, mesmerize me,
"Pacify me, O' great master, so
"That I might know thy peace, and
"Fill me with intrigue, pon which,
"My famished soul might feast!"

"Won't you please..."

"Light my darkness?
"Stoke my flame?
"Calm my mind and
"Heal my pain?

"Dry my weary,
"Weeping eyes, and
"Grant my heart, to
"Feel again?"

"If only for a moment,
"Let me know that
"I'm still live! and

"Fill me with your beauty,
"That of which, I'm so deprived!"

Now, he draws up with his needle,
The cold steel then tears a hole,
He feels relief, that within seconds,
He will once again be whole.

Back he pulls, as crimson stains the walls
He pushes in, and back he falls,
Into the velvet wonderland, of
Blankets on his bed.

His prayer indeed, was not refused
He feels fulfilled, he is renewed,
Well, at least until tomorrow's
Vicious cycle starts anew.

The lore recycles and continues
All things end
And many begin again
This is why tradition fades like sin
And centuries lose themselves within
Moments of unforgivable issues
And we assume ourselves with misuse
And limit ourselves with disbelief
And consume ourselves in fisheye lenses
Like we knew ourselves to be prey to predators
And lure ourselves into traps of pleasure
And confuse ourselves through various measures
We dilute our blood with foreign entries
And we speak til we're blue in face and ******
And rue our own birth and death cuz
We blew ourselves into this mess
We drew ourselves this reckless verse
And ***** ourselves on every turn
But there is a light beyond the stars we think we know
There is a distant life we knew upon infringing our own birth stone
And anguish may be what we think is answers wrapped in shrouded homes
But the truth is that our treasures live beyond time and distance and dismemberment
And though the angel cries that she's asleep, she's too awake to compensate
She's so alive her blood boils thin and she thinks she might die this very day.