Light the torches.
Burn it to the ground.
Let the flames dance until the ashes flee this plot of land upon the back of the wind.
This patriarchal house that father built has been stained with the blood of past victims.
The blood of enemies dots the floor while whats left of friends streaks the walls, marking the spot where they leaned for one last moment of respite prior to life escaping them.
We stand here with the warm blood dripping from our hanging fingertips.
Clothing streaked red.
Clearly we all had a part to play.
Whether part of the execution or part of the clean up, we all took part in the slaughter.
Fathers swung blades.
Mothers bandaged the wounded so they may **** again.
Children carried the buckets of blood to be disposed of.
Yet no one wept.
Not a tear was shed in the name of this great nation.
No one wailed during the systematic destruction of our resources.

Roads are crumbling.
Water is poisoned.
Politics are a circus.
The police have become a military force.
And lives have been destroyed.
Fathers are still wielding the blade
While mothers take up the blood buckets of their children who have been slain.
When does it end?
Does it end when we run out of weapons?
When we run out of people?
When we run out of love?
Weapons are only an extention of the wielder.
The bomb unbuilt cannot explode.
Our mother's words should be ringing in all of our ears.
Be good.
Treat people right.
Love.
Instead we jam fingers in ears, scream and stamp feet until even our thoughts are nothing but static.
The hiss and squeal of gunshots and speeding tires continually drown out the sounds of children's laughter and those Marvin Gaye records that Mrs. Jenkins plays on Sunday nights.
This isn't just a story of the inner city blues.
The suburban warriors are also witness to the carnage.
It's time to stay the blade.
Allow mothers to mourn.
And children to play.
Peace is a choice.
Choose wisely.

Good morning, my friend.
As we awake to another beautiful sunrise,
your eyes radiate the burning star of your soul and
shine upon the cold moon of my heart,
allowing you to see me as I truly am;
A simple mixture of water, rock and minerals,
working in perfect balance to float through the empty vacuum of this space.
Your light shines upon my imperfections,
laying them bare.
The warm glow of your rays has sprouted life
in this barren landscape.
I yearn for your gravitational pull.
If my inching towards you throws the solar system out of alignment,
then I will stay close by as we watch the planets collide and
the milky way melt into shooting stars,
nourishing the primitive life forms that grow inside me until a
new ecosystem sprouts from the combined forces of our energy.

Good morning, my friend.
Thank you for your sunshine.

It's the first day of summer heat.
Temperature is one hundred and four.
The junkies and drunks hit the street,
shufflin' towards death's door.

Freon raindrops fall from air conditioners
that hang from windows on the third floor.
I think "this day couldn't be finer",
as I shuffle towards death's door.

Bicycle tires roll over broken glass
from the shattered window of a store.
The prostitutes all congregate beneath the overpass,
as they shuffle towards death's door.

**** smoke fills the air
as I finish off beer number four.
A chance to put my mind elsewhere,
as I shuffle towards death's door.

Do not speak highly of me when I die,
we know the words aren't true.
I cheated.
I lied.
I made too many women cry.
I drank
and crashed my car a few times because of it.
I smoked cigarettes
and didn't brush my teeth enough.
I stole once
which I was never proud of.
I said nasty things
to very nice people
and I didn't do enough to help
those who were in need.
Please, my friend,
do not speak highly of me when I die.