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Michelle M Nov 2020
Sometimes I miss Baltimore,
as it was,
in this ragged snapshot from 1999.
Smoky bars, diffuse light,
the dusky anonymity of proto-digital consciousness,
A city teeming with its own subversive imagination.

Palpable in the night air,
the questionable intentions of the still willfully living,
A dim seediness skulking in the corners and alleyways,
bearing impartial witness to the transgressions of all those nights, preordained to bleed into mornings,

A time,
A town,
that was fearless,
rogue in the absolute saturation of its moments,
Shimmering in the mists like slick cobblestone,
like points of light upon dark water,
the winking reflections of a neon harbor,
paused somewhere between future and past,
A bastion of the new prehistory.

I miss Baltimore,
covert and alive,
In its hour of renegade persuasion,
however quaint or illusory,
its voice was distinct,
in the chatter of the underground.

There was a relevance to the present then,
a sanctity in the moment.
There were questions left unanswered.
There was intimacy in a shared secret.
Misfits were permitted to revel.

I miss that Baltimore most,
the one that curated me,
called me out of myself.
With a history cemented in the arcane,
its raven-dark undercurrent
like smooth cognac softening the edges,
delicate as roses,
giving the rage a moment's pause,

Giving human momentum a breath,
to observe and retain the poignancy,
of  itself,
In all its uneasy coexistence,

as it once was,
steeped in the tradition of the unsung,
like an archeological dig,
On the surface,
merely crumbling dirt,
and broken things.
but  deeper,
an uncanny relic of rich insights,
and richer delights.

But one had to know where to look,
and one had to know how to let it take lead.
And one could never be too scrupulous,
or scrutinous.
The Carnival of Dissonance,
was not for the uninitiated,
Mark Toney Oct 2019
Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
On the Road with Kerouac

Brilliant stars, silent nights
Fireflies, Northern Lights
Mountain streams, fresh air
Fall asleep anywhere

Small town, take a chance
Pig roast, barn dance
Allemande left!  Do-si-do!
Spontaneity here we go!

Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
On the Road with Kerouac

Beat Zen's hey-day
Doing things our own way
Nonconformity, anything goes

Shot to pieces, picking skin
Benzedrine, adrenaline
Don't forget the Phenergan
Notify our next of kin

Long arm gendarme
My mistake namaste
Backpack bivouac
On the Road with Kerouac
7/15/2019 - Poetry form: Rhyme - "The Beat Generation was a literary movement started by a group of authors whose work explored and influenced American culture and politics in the post-war era. The bulk of their work was published and popularized throughout the 1950s. The central elements of Beat culture are the rejection of standard narrative values, making a spiritual quest, the exploration of American and Eastern religions, the rejection of materialism, explicit portrayals of the human condition and experimentation with drugs...In the 1960s, elements of the expanding Beat movement were incorporated into the hippie and larger counterculture movements." (Wikipedia: Beat Generation) - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
Bryce Jan 2018
I stole you away from city lights
Yep held it in a brown balled paper bag
Drank in the words like liquor
I didn’t think anybody could see, really.
San Francisco stopped and got back on the treadmill
Made of silicon and now its gone

Beaded sweat of mind bleeds into the bay
I walked on the pier and teared up a little bit lip
The hills once covered in god are covered in another ones
I don’t know what to think of it at all

Grit the teeth against it and grind them to dust
Bite the tongue until it leaks sweet sanguine blood
I drink the wine and dine on the pain
And wish with all my dying heart to meet you again
But you are dead
Even the world you left is dead
And the minds of man are dying
Because they got way too mad of trying

Counter the counted counter-cultured counter-top
Endless sine of combating thought
I’ve walked to the golden-brown California hillcrop
And realized I stood on holy seasonal grassland genocide

With horror the minds withered United State Holodomor
Can I build a paper airplane to take away from here
In time you knew there was nothing here to fear
I cannot find it
Please help me find it

Your alley smells like **** and the taste of forlorn
Bay sits in hazy forever
The water still glitters god’s diamonds but it feels more like
A forgotten mound of coal
You cannot polish these timely souls
From bronze to something gold
If they do not want it

Men like you live to die
And we can pretend that there will be another to tell your place
But Socratic manners of speaking are banned
So too, will you be left on trial

The veil of night shines with roman jewels on an incandescent man-made interstate
I watch them sparkle in the receding mirror, all but the brightest remain
We built stars on our land and pretend they are god
And in a way they are
What poor representatives to those congresses of light
Impossibly far

So I must make do with the day we are born to
Speak words that mean worlds to you
And perhaps together we can reawake something
Disastrous after the soul, and open the I
afteryourimbaud Feb 2017
I wanted to be like
Abbie Hoffman before,
until I built a prison
of my own.
Now I am trapped within
the usual circle
that I have grown
tired of,
even before I start,
even before everything ends.
Trevor Blevins Dec 2016
Wrapped in electric Christmas sweaters,
Apple cider morning holding whiskey
Feeling nervous.

I watch average people out my window,
I see snow, unique and frozen.

But who cares that everything outside is dying?
Here inside it's a rave, we're all alive and close,

Sweating, comfortable.

It's the only thing tethering me to the Earth.

Staying awake is only fun when there's ecstasy involved,

Depressing news on smartphones,
Roofies and ice cubes.

So much excitement, so little time before death,
Might as well live in excess,
And then stop, suddenly.
Autumn Briarhart Mar 2016
Cursed by technology
Born to be a prodigy
Roamed the earth to become well versed in ecology.
Broke the dirt with the farm hand’s anthology

Made a stony hearth from the girth of this broken land’s economy.
Pitched my yurt where the man can’t bother me.

On top of luscious greens,
In the field of dreams,
No more do I pull the weeds of society.

All my proceeds grow seeds
I don’t need deeds just look at these feats
Grab an ear of corn if you haven’t heard of me.

Burn what you don’t need,
An idea of greed, the illusion of necessity.

Brought to you by bold thieves
Who trade lives but don’t sleep
Hold banquets but don’t eat
Grow food but don’t feed.

Ripped from your roots.

Dropped on the streets
in the sweltering heat.
Drying like souls of the ******,
every last one of us lost lambs.

What they want for me, it’s not a part of me

I won’t take place in the injustice that’s been bought for me.
But what I brought for me is a hypothesis,
Tranquility so deep a Buddhist monk couldn’t offer me
More than what my coffers could proffer me.

I’m not crazy but I have started the uncoupling

That’s got me to this mental brink,
Out of this poisonous sink,
No longer do I drink- from this sea of doubt
Where the irradiated mind has its teeth pulled out.

I put my knowledge of “earthology” into this horse and plow
I raise sow in the north for truffles of course
Sell them for hundreds of dollars an ounce to chefs in New York

I make herbal oils richer than kings from thorny things and rosy beings
Contemplating the meaning of life while looking at my fig-leaves

And I will pick the fruit and share it with you
Confuse me not with a more treacherous youth
Whom only seeks to toxify you with some new indoctrinated truth
Give you some of their lead paint proof, glyphosate too.

Their cell phone hooks filling your time with
Facebook looks,
And a MySpace laze
With honeycomb glaze
There in your man-made maze
Where you don’t speak for days.

I have seen the ways good people choose bad things to happen due the deceit
Of the industry they’re tapping’
Where is the Chaplain?
He’s got this book , and his grubby hands are in the pocket of the fat man
Who takes the holy waters and turns them to black sand.

Tossing grains in the air it’s unclear “whether” we can breathe it in
With no name and no face one rigged rat race,

We look for those Rebels M.I.A.
This was a stream of consciousness that I wrote on the way to a farming apprenticeship.
TMD..Too many dreams, not enough dreamers.
Transcendent level of realities,
neurological radio transmitting divine consciousness to filter out daily fallacies.
Collapse in consciousness, Dismantle the physiological boundaries to achieve the pinnacle of a conglomeration of spiritual transformation.
Reconnect with spirit,
So help us Gaia, so help us universal nexus. Without even seeing you, i feel it deeply in my solar plexus,
That we are all connected---
And through our hearts we are protected, we are alive and have been selected to march towards a new paradigm, each soul duly elected;
through this process of love, and support from the synchronicity club,
cleaning up sin city’s pub with our rhymes
Going through  lines and lines of authentic self cravers…. just to deal with jah created vacuums of reverse lasers wielded by ravers.

******’s thoughts to be psychonauts,
Hiding doubts without the slightest worries
Your mind’s a box, minuscule with so many boundaries
But mine is vibrant, vividly stylish and keeps recurring
The past is blurry, barely searching, yea I think u heard me

The skell of the bass leaves zinn in his place
So witness what’s great, see its simply sinful so straight
We empty bliss into our systems till we hallucinate
And then we’re up for days, blazed and drained, turned insane
Time to recuperate

Truth is paradox, Fancy words in a box
Experiential knowledge overlookin the edge

Speak of time as a mystery of the mind
Vivid skies make you realize there is never a bind

Perception of life, simply reflection
Present moment with a longer extension
Don’t even mention your problems
Because We already solved em.

Mescaline and bliss sends me to heaven but with drips
Mix them together nice, chop it fine and I'm ready to commit
Never thinking twice not hesitant, not I
Meditation to astral projection, its my nature to fly

In this world you have to take what you can find for fear of someone ripping it from your grasp in some desperate act of power.  Knowing this, I would give mine away before the final hour.  What a cruel game we play, torturing the self with a recreation of falsified rules.  We can never create until we imagine the tools.

I am not the prophet, but I can still predict the future.
I am not the savior, but I can point out the vulture.
The martyr selfishly lives vicariously through the lives of his followers.

Bored in a solar system
I see the greatest kingdom
Geometric, moving pattern
Static coughing
orbit Saturn

Hold that ****,
true words spoke
Realize that life a joke.
COLLAB ZINN: SEE for some conscious Music.
R A Lee Jan 2016
Intertwining, two, three hearts beating as one
laughing and gasping, dying for air, but never feeling more alive
they take in the moment, tasting skin so sweet
monogamy will never feel this way
monogamy will never know love like this, will never know lust like this.
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