"communes" poems
Wake Up Wretched World,
I assert my Indigenous heritage
I self identify
With the ancestors of my continent
Identity afraid to articulate
Culture, unknowingly belonging to me
Cycle of shame now shattered
Product of love, hatred, lust, and desire
europeans plundering my mother Latin America
In chaos and violence, my skin's pigment
Has been engineered through the mestizaje
Of my Indigenous forefathers
How could I not forget my lineage
When the historical legacy of modernization
Has been to massacre the consciousness
Of where my people really come from
Erasing indigenous pride
Making Paisano and Indio
Synonymous with poverty and alienation
Insulting the humbleness
State of hunger you've left us in
Original lineage within me disturbed
So you push me to ambiguity and embarrassment
Not white, not indigenous?
Pure indigenous brothers and sisters silenced
Not an exploitable consumerist market, not in your campaigns
Not benefactors of your philanthropic development tactics
Bodies too costly to abuse, no reason to bring them
Into the neoliberal multinational corporate circuit
Constantly driving them off productive land
Because they choose to assert their identity
Live in collective communes, not owing you nothing
Waiting for them to make barren lands productive
So you can take those lands too
Not capturing an obscure history, these are not colonial times
This is the legacy of the european presence entering mother Latin America
21st century still defiling Indigenous cultures to civilize and modernize
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
She'll sleep tight in a parallel universe tonight
my deeply serious rainbow girl astral projects
communes with Shiva and champions chakras
she has the recipe for what passes as illumined
her ignorance of current events is appalling
but that chosen ignorance is staid and unperturbed
I grumble and complain, I use the news like a ******
I put the pieces together, pattern the puzzle-
I see the BIG picture…I cut my life short
possessing a keen memory is like the proverbial millstone
the information is the lake
rainbow girl is contemptuous of my self inflicted plight
we realize its a matter of time before disparate likes divide
I am fire and she is water, I the destroyer, she the preserver
the passion can be complimentary for just so long
Like the lady bard said:
*You read those books where luxury
Comes as a guest to take a slave
Books where artists in noble poverty
Go like virgins to the grave (Joni)*
She'll tolerate my confabulated artistry a spell
I can see she's a caterwauling banshee of protestation in the waiting
Her mellifluous quietude, equanimity and perfect poise can only last so long
Before my brash stripped down vituperative diatribe is as acid in the eyes
Then be off to resume her prior harmonic convergence of heart stuff
as I with my artistic bent, abbreviate my life
*http://jonimitchell.com/music/song.cfm?id=38 The Boho Dance
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
A loon communes on the lake,
the lake is a tear drop on Mother Earth,
the ripples flow like glass being blown,
I am perched on my porch.
The loon cries once more,
I puff on my cigar,
the smoke shifts indecisively,
it moves much like the unchained around me,
free willed and wild.
I dream of being unchained.
My branches stretch out,
they yearn for the sun,
but heavy grey clouds hang on puppet strings.
Overcast and encumbered by responsibility,
they shroud the sun,
blanket it with regret and doubt.
I dream of being unchained.
I lower my branches and shout,
but no one hears,
my voice is chained.
The loon cries out,
it echoes unrestrained.
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 12:52 AM UTC
Far from the world, O Lord, I flee,
From strife and tumult far;
From scenes where Satan wages still
His most successful war.
The calm retreat, the silent shade,
With prayer and praise agree;
And seem, by Thy sweet bounty made,
For those who follow Thee.
There if Thy Spirit touch the soul,
And grace her mean abode,
Oh, with what peace, and joy, and love,
She communes with her God!
There like the nightingale she pours
Her solitary lays;
Nor asks a witness of her song,
Nor thirsts for human praise.
Author and Guardian of my life,
Sweet source of light Divine,
And, -- all harmonious names in one, --
My Saviour! Thou art mine.
What thanks I owe Thee, and what love,
A boundless, endless store,
Shall echo through the realms above,
When time shall be no more.
2.2k
Coyote’s mournful howl echoed
in the new moon’s enchanting sultry ether;
breathing the living harmony of the wilderness rhythm
He seemed to sense a soul reincarnation
within a pervasive spirit light
an oft misunderstood
common thread shared
this hallowed land’s night
An uncommon Zen stirring from within,
stifling apathy ..,
. . . of rumble deep beneath
a dormant volcano reawakening ;
that which lies undiscovered
just before the ruptured moment ..,
liberation of release ―
dust and ashes taking flight
Through open window insomnia churns
fifty shades of blue ..,
cast in shadowed hues of broken silence
Coyote stirred the stillness
with a hauntingly familiar cry
reading the ridge-top echoes
like the book of my mind
" YIP YIP A ―W O O H !!! " . . . the somber plea
For it is in these final hours chosen chore
the recurring torn
these chains and things
Coyote was going there ―
to stand these watermark crossroads
this hour of need
Accepting brother has always been lonely
sometimes anything
means something - -
and so it goes ..,
Coyote communes in pulse
from ancient realms
this sacred blood ..,
Om
the lost chord
wounded healers ,
. . . one mutual spirit
runs marrow deep
where dogs run free
The moan of doves whisper to the impending dawn
. . . always known these days
too soon do come and gone
What once was a life well lived ,
s l o w l y e v a n e s c i n g
like the summer river’s flow
some say ..." you never miss the water
'til the well runs dry "
. . . regrets a waste of time - -
Rumination, a loathsome silent reverie
a taunting unsolved koan
an unplanned oxymoron ,
beget of a deafening silence
. . . dust sleeps with indifference
veiling a beautiful handmade
unstrung guitar
muted - - abandoned,
tone poems, unsung
and so "re-begins" the task ...
come what may rise up
into the dark star's light ...
Coyote was going there - -
a dawning metamorphosis
under another nebulous sky
. . . refreshed by Luna's potent alchemy bestrewn
in her spellbinding lambent moonlight elixir of life ...
harlon rivers ... 5. 21. 2015
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 11:21 AM UTC
2020 Vision.
There’s no flying cars
We’re not living under the sea
Mars is still unsettled
Mail is not sent by rockets
But in 2020 all apples have faces now.
Apes have not evolved to work for us
Aliens have not made contact
We still have ten toes
We can not yet breathe under water
But in 2020 we sing songs instead of talking
There is still hunger
There is still war
We can’t yet teleport to a holiday destination
Or read each other’s minds
But in 2020 dorkiness got into the water supply.
Hibernation became an art form
Hermits live in communes
Elle Kay and Veda were never strangers again.
Jan 1, 2020
Jan 1, 2020 at 12:22 PM UTC
he rises with words in his unwashed mouth,
mouth, is unwashed, tongue tastes dregs, bits
of morsels of his past, some good, some bad,
some tastes of places, of women he has loved,
sweetness of sorrow, dregs of regret, and all a
jumbled, tumbled, intertwined, clinging combo
of nations, his~stories …a mashup of a mashup’s
smashup
he tries to separate them, this admixture, to better
recall, but the sacrificial fire lit, the ember-members
are too burnt, indistinguishable and can’t find the
vive entre les differences…
South of france, tahiti, the one he loved in cities,
Toronto, L.A., and Portland, and the communes
in Asia, but tries harder but it’s no longer possible
to separate the essences and the similarities same,
and a great sadness is what he recovers when runs
his tongue across the roof of his mouth, the roof of
his memory, the roots of his…being…his unbecoming
he rises to a glorious day, where he is can’t be sure,
who he is with, certainly not, the why, but he recovers
some pants and the idea of a fresh start seeps creepy in,
but by the time both legs dressed, his mind’s eye wanders
to a new sunrise and old template of temptations. . .
Jul 28, 2024
Jul 28, 2024 at 7:30 AM UTC
I might be a few years to late
As this has been decades in the making
But I'm going through with a commune
To give a few hippies something to do
So I wrote an ad, put it on a list
They say this guy Craig is the best
Now my yard is filled with hippies by the score
Or would the proper way be to say hippies galore
I hurried them all into the house
It wouldn't do for the neighbors to find this out
I set up booths in different rooms
I handed out name tags and colorful kazoo's
Don't let it be said I run a shabby commune
You gotta keep the hippies happy in all you do
That's why I have a calendar of special events
From karaoke kazoo to rug making with hemp
On Tuesday's we basket weave, Wednesday's we kite
But never in the day as hippies burn in the light
(Or is that Vampires...scratch that, that may not be right)
I even hired a Jerry Garcia look a like
To call out the numbers on Bingo night
All this hard work hasn't gone for not
Communes and Jefferson Airplane tunes last week called me up
They'd like to feature me in their magazine
A full page article on living the dream
Where I can help others to have their very on
Commune to invite a few hippies along
So go out if you can to a magazine stand
Read how it's done then buy you some land
We'll have hippie commune's from one end to the other
No color nor creed just sisters and brothers
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
Love accepts and does not analyze
Love surrenders, does not resist
Love sees without eyes
It hears without words
It understands the silence
Love communes direct
and deeper
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
The sixties changed our countries ways,
Gone was the time of June Cleaver days.
Vietnam and protesting, divorce and unrest.
Family's unraveling, that era's not the best.
Out around LA, communes were in vogue,
Welcoming all, the beggar, thief and rogue.
The one commune, around Topanga town,
Was home to a family, that brought the world down.
Charles Manson, and his motley crew,
Were plotting and planning horrible things to do.
The drinking and drugs, had warped his mind,
The war was coming, the world in a bind.
Gathering arms for the fight of their life,
Blacks vs Whites, getting ready for the strife.
Funding is needed, for any good war,
Arms and supplies, always needing more.
So after a party, featuring mind altering drugs,
A robbery was planed, the family now thugs.
The first attacks, were directed at those,
Oblivious to Charlie, they had no foes.
Sharon Tate was a pregnant Hollywood beauty,
An aspiring actress, she was a real cutie.
Watson and Krenwinkel and other sick folk,
Tortured and killed, with a fork they did poke.
A horrible crime, what were they thinking?
Even lower they dropped, their ship kept on sinking.
The LaBianca castle was next on the list,
Beaten to death, with a hammer and a fist.
San Quentin and the gas chamber, to be their fate,
Sentences commuted to life, the reaper must wait.
To collect up those souls, and bring them to hell,
God may be forgiving, but this horror doesn’t sell.
Manson and his cronies must remain locked away,
New souls for the devil, in hell they will stay.
Please visit poemsbypaul.com
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
she kneels in a fire place
******* off a midnight entity
of deformed shadows
and hinged erections
rickety tickety tin
sang clutching muffin
in Neolithic fires
caressing
tinker toy femurs *** deep
a dark heaven chants
**** ghosts and gorgons
while sea witches and dwindling waves
like goat steps
edge twilight princess
Zex depraved lord
and lick my lips
crucify her spread wide
coiling vacant maidens
yielding angel hemic tides
in rituals of **********
skinned on scarlet pavement
as she is dragged
on her knees
where moaning thighs perch
on nailed sticks
like white picket fences
and invisible doors burn
she communes with oracles of lust
that incinerate rafts of solitude
windows slam shut
like shuddering robes of thunder
and a headless god
pours her glistening tears
over his arterial bludgeon
resurrection of eros
in the Golgotha
of swarming incubi
she called to hell
i am prey
Aug 9, 2019
Aug 9, 2019 at 12:28 PM UTC
in the midnight hour
desperate men do desperate things,
this a tale of one man
facing down a terrible challenge
in the city that never sleeps, NYC,
especially this sleepless natty resident,
(of that fact, the bible speaks)
when there is nothing left to write or say,
could pick up the phone and order
penne alla ***** delivered to his bed
better yet, hot and direct
not sure
which I prefer,
the penne
or the *****
but in the absence annually
of my master mistress,
all bets are off,
she communes with nature,
I, with pasta
really?
really?
Frosted Flakes for dinner was not well and
sufficient?
have you seen you waist line lately,
or is that a physical impossibility?
drat rat
will forgo my pasta orange creamsicle,
but you will be sorry too,
cause instead you have to share,
to eat,
this awful poem in bed
next to me
12:34am
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 12:47 AM UTC
“That’s what America is about,” Carson said. “A land of dreams and opportunity. There were other immigrants who came here in the bottom of slave ships, worked even longer, even harder for less."
Ben Carson is a might confusing
because he is without a doubt
a brilliant brain surgeon
& yet,
& yet ...
according to him
he communes telepathically
with wild bears,
can calm armed-robbers,
stabbed his best friend,
& now sees slavery as
some sort of Welcome
To the Land of Liberty
All are Welcome Act.
Ben Carson is an idiot
because well ...
where to start,
well how's about millions
of folks forced to board
ships naked, afraid,
chained in rows,
as SLAVES,
& yes, half of all slave infants
died in the first year,
survivors lived on a basic
nutrition-free gruel,
there was diarrhea, dysentery,
whooping cough, blindness,
skin lesions &
convulsions,
& they were
SLAVES.
but to Dr. Ben Carson
these terrified, beaten,
chained, whipped,
SLAVES ...
were immigrants
just like you
and just like me.
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 1:30 AM UTC
There is an inch of sleight in this house – this cold chair,
a burst of cologne clogging a 20 minute stride. The stringent
air tonight blusters deeper than gashing sheens.
The little dryad of dew outside and the cadenza of frogs
after lambaste of rain. Whenever you sing, your voice
communes an immense pain, something unconscious of its
gravity, something that levitates back to momentary ululations
swelling in the grime of times and heady chances. A long stretch
of a day submerged in silence resembling a howl underwater.
There will be many sorrows and they will take form of doves,
assume the skin of the populace. They will come in a volume of
names pressing the linoleumed musk the way the body turns
maneuvering over the saltine, the mattress, juxtaposed to a lover,
a brusque aroma of coffee brushing away the calm demeanor
of the morning, dragging along the weight of its lassitude
towards the sprays of fern opening a dense ornate of forget,
you, in all places that pulse without recall – an obtuse
fish feeling its life in a surge of blue, overtime, finally knowing
what it means to sing and drone only words.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
Silliest bristle came over me, like a yearn to wear a negligee to church, or eat ants. I can't remember who first gave me pause in an earnest sense of how to live life justly or fully. Not sure which one I'd want more. Doesn't matter, I suppose. My morals keep becoming reconfigured. It's difficult knowing who might be heroic, or who might be manipulating mass appeal in order to boost book sales. I think I just want some new exotic flavor, that rush of tasting avocado for the first time. That really happened to me, you know. I never knew the taste of avocado until I was nineteen and moved to California. It was not common at the time in New Jersey, or at least I had never had it. Never even heard of it, really.
I landed a job as a prep cook and dishwasher at a little mom and pop joint that catered to a mostly lunch crowd from the county court house. It was a quaint little town in the Sierra Nevadas. Townsfolk consisted of artists, musicians, gold miners, hippie marijuana propagators, and lumberjacks. Mostly, at that time, there were the good old boys, Republicans who held most political offices and police positions, and the newbies, attracted to the area by some new age communes, a Democrat influx. I fit into the newbie category, though it was a girl I followed there, not a guru. And of all the outstanding romances had, through the twenty five some years spent in California, none have lasted as long as my love affair with the avocado. It's a certain jolt I feel when guacamole passes through my lips, squishes around my mouth, and lands within an empty belly. I was beside myself in wonder, that very first day such a taste hit me. Now, being back in New Jersey, but not devoid of such illustrious fruit, I wonder where it is I stand on more matters of what it is to live justly or fully? Where is after here? I even see one of those new age communes has moved in down the street. Though I have my guacamole, I'm feeling less fulfilled.
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 11:12 PM UTC
Today could be the day
first bitten
spring curls beneath my hopeful brow
blackest dirt sings richness
alarmed with
promised growth
inside out openings
loves embracing
rows upon rows
peerless shining truths
fed on black water
planted without doubt
my ancestor
forgiveness seeds
Today could be the day
Alice’s rabbit hole found
first
small
spurts
ant energy
marching ...
intent
sober
clean
see yonder the finish line?
My feet crippled
tied up to old stories
fathomed deep with slots
for copper pennies
unworkable
killable
outdated and futile
slathered in history
are cheap resigned actions
day after day
groundhog sing songs
each morning
eyes dry with snake cures
seeing my other side of the bed
missing out
slide rule elements of now
of what could be
Today could be the day
cherub heart
Pink with
expectation
alive with
bringing forth
communes
both sides
into action
I lay here supple
feeling the cure
ready
for
the
change
I
seek.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 9:09 AM UTC
Born with prejudice, throw it all about
By extracting color within the blues
You’d all still enjoy it, no doubt
Without any clues, you got nothin’ to lose
The colors of blue, were made to be taken out
Now listen again, with newborn ears
Remember, you’d let dirt, get in and about
Baby face baby face without any fears.
Tired of racism, going on and about
By liberating, we strike new tunes
You’d all still enjoy it, no doubt
Without any clues, you got nothin’ to lose
The colors of blue, were made to be taken out
Now listen again, with newborn ears
Remember, you’d let dirt, get in and about
Baby face baby face without any fears.
All of society, from near to far about
To all city slickers, outback folks or hippie communes
You’d all still enjoy it, no doubt
Without any clues, you got nothin’ to lose
The colors of blue, were made to be taken out
Now listen again, with newborn ears
Remember, you’d let dirt, get in and about
Baby face baby face without any fears.
Oct 11, 2019
Oct 11, 2019 at 2:53 AM UTC
Through the towns and country lanes
fortress walls and ancient stains
Roman treasures, aquaducts
the running bulls, a stroke of luck!
Cobblestone and feudal cracks
the culture weaves and summer smacks!
enchanted ramparts, medieval ruins
coliseums and communes
Aigues Mortes to Avignon
the rolling hills and castles strong
fields of grape and olive trees
cicadas singing on the breeze
Tranquil rivers, lost lagoons
horses prancing at high noon
flora and fauna in lofty decree!
say the sycamore and cypress tree
De Lumières in tomb-like calm
illuminating sounds of Brahm
Vermeer, Picasso and Van Goh
the ghosts of Voltaire and Rousseau
Les Baux-de-Provence's immersive stage
brush strokes wide from another age
chambers deep at quarry rock
the mesmerizing notes of Bach
Sacred figures, holy shrines
monestries in grand design
blocks, arches and polished stone
gladiators at the throne
Castle turrets and dungeon bars
the ancient bridge of Pont du Gard
chapel bells across la ville
spiral stairs where time stands still
Scrolls and chronicles filled with scars
church and state with dark memoirs
scholars, artists and dignitaries
in pursuit of God...and all his glory
Aug 30, 2023
Aug 30, 2023 at 12:00 PM UTC
talking heads
discuss the moral fiber of America
but they mean
rich,
white,
elitist
fibers….
what about the fiber of those who helped slaves escape
at risk of their own peril?
what about long-haired kids from the Height
building communes in the California forests?
what about those firemen who ran into burning buildings
to rescue humans regardless of race, creed, or color?
rich,
white
elitist men,
don’t care….
look at the native traditions of living
harmoniously within the natural order of the planet/
look across the impoverish third world lands
and the way families feed each other, tend to children,
work for the common good/
look at the medical marijuana movement
freely giving pounds to sick or autistic children/
rich,
white,
elitist men,
don’t care….
these men only care about making money
off the backs of the less fortunate
expanding the bottom line
while maintaining the status quo
taking care of the shareholders
at the detriment of the entire planet….
rich,
white,
elitist men,
care about that….
Sep 17, 2015
Sep 17, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
un-damaged brains are such fertile fields
waiting to be sowed - as those with infantile
imagination are prone to dyslexic deficiencies
and given their dreams, have ensured their imaginations
be like foetal embryos - those prone to nightmares
will never be prone to Disney's wedlock being fulfilled -
dreams are imagination's thieves - and memory short-circuiting
a fake - analysis of conscious memory
is unlike analysis of unconscious memory -
albrecht dürer seemed sensible - we've become sensible,
but also too naive - our modern sensibility
extends into a belief in demons and angels
with modern pharmaceutical companies -
nothing has changed even though man is
in flux - with modern dentistry's trickery -
how can man trust man
and not feel obliged to distrust him
for reasons that provide us with travelling communes
or jeep-sees - see what lost diacritical approaches does
to the tongue entombed in optics? chiral-optics -
you can say gypsy and say jeep-see like a handshake.
god, we're paying for our original sin
with the virtuoso of animal plagiarism -
a mere peasant is also but a mere Mozart -
i too claim my right to talk easily among scaffold-men,
talk of his girlfriend and Smurfs due to height
and Gargamel - i rather among them than in
what is talked as the pop of the Smiths' vocab
of schooling and regret blues; cats demonic, dogs
saintly.
Jul 29, 2016
Jul 29, 2016 at 10:38 PM UTC
J'aime le souvenir de ces époques nues,
Dont Phoebus se plaisait à dorer les statues.
Alors l'homme et la femme en leur agilité
Jouissaient sans mensonge et sans anxiété,
Et, le ciel amoureux leur caressant l'échine,
Exerçaient la santé de leur noble machine.
Cybèle alors, fertile en produits généreux,
Ne trouvait point ses fils un poids trop onéreux,
Mais, louve au coeur gonflé de tendresses communes,
Abreuvait l'univers à ses tétines brunes.
L'homme, élégant, robuste et fort, avait le droit
D'être fier des beautés qui le nommaient leur roi ;
Fruits purs de tout outrage et vierges de gerçures,
Dont la chair lisse et ferme appelait les morsures !
Le Poète aujourd'hui, quand il veut concevoir
Ces natives grandeurs, aux lieux où se font voir
La nudité de l'homme et celle de la femme,
Sent un froid ténébreux envelopper son âme
Devant ce noir tableau plein d'épouvantement.
Ô monstruosités pleurant leur vêtement !
Ô ridicules troncs ! torses dignes des masques !
Ô pauvres corps tordus, maigres, ventrus ou flasques,
Que le dieu de l'Utile, implacable et serein,
Enfants, emmaillota dans ses langes d'airain !
Et vous, femmes, hélas ! pâles comme des cierges,
Que ronge et que nourrit la débauche, et vous, vierges,
Du vice maternel traînant l'hérédité
Et toutes les hideurs de la fécondité !
Nous avons, il est vrai, nations corrompues,
Aux peuples anciens des beautés inconnues :
Des visages rongés par les chancres du coeur,
Et comme qui dirait des beautés de langueur ;
Mais ces inventions de nos muses tardives
N'empêcheront jamais les races maladives
De rendre à la jeunesse un hommage profonde,
- A la sainte jeunesse, à l'air simple, au doux front,
A l'oeil limpide et clair ainsi qu'une eau courante,
Et qui va répandant sur tout, insouciante
Comme l'azur du ciel, les oiseaux et les fleurs,
Ses parfums, ses chansons et ses douces chaleurs !
698
*the communes are here again
avant garde artists’ colonies too!
we produce but do not reproduce
everyone knows about the *****
and how it is a preview of heaven
the family is dead, long live the family!*
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
It's too late for me my friends
Pacing around my kitchen with a half empty bottle of Red Stripe I write this poem to you
To anyone who gives a **** enough to pay attention and listen to all the nonsense that leaves my lips
I am a man with no realistic goals
I am a man who does not listen to the battle cry that beats in his chest and forces it's way through his veins
Instead I plug my ears because I know what danger would come from action
I am a slave to inaction
And I've been told that a slave that doesn't defy their master is not yet deserving of their freedom
While I don't believe that's the truth, I let it apply to me
Because I am a coward
Nothing I want is attainable
None of my dreams are feasible
I have lost more times than I can count
But maybe if I lose enough, it will mean someday I've won
Because I don't want to live a quantifiable life of wins and losses
Successes and failures
I want a life that is worth getting up each morning
A life of joy that is armed to the teeth
Because from John Brown to Emiliano Zapata
From Spanish barricades to French communes
I believe that the heroes who fail are the only one's worth having
Because in failure there is always action
There is sincerity and the feeling that what one is doing must happen eventually
So why not now?
What is stopping me from saying "no more shall I live a life that isn't according to the what I believe"
I believe in a life like the hardships of Paul
"Sorrowful but always rejoicing
Poor yet making many rich
Having nothing yet possessing everything"
Alone I must build for myself a life worth living
And together we can build a world we can finally call home
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 12:00 AM UTC
I drive in circles because I don't want to go home
I trust in the strength of my phone's speakers as I listen to Ramshackle Glory
I drive past a house from long lost memories
What is my obsession with this suffering?
Why can't things move forward?
I romanticize living in my car
But then I remember most people who live in their cars don't have a choice
Does this make me a bad person?
Am I a bad person?
The next logical step after riding the rails is living in your car
Soon you'll find me an old grey beard anarchist living deep in the woods
A shotgun I never intend to fire pointed dutifully forward as I yell an the empty forest to get off my lawn
Surround myself with enough trees to hide from your ghost
I will surround myself with land and won't pay a dime because it probably won't be mine
But no ones gonna look for me where I'm going
I'm going to unionize the college campus
Seize the means of textbook production and go to bed hungry only when I want to
I will have coffee for breakfast
I will storm every Bastille left on earth
I will create a million Paris Communes
I won't go home
I promise I will never stop loving everyone I meet
I promise I will never stop fighting everything that wraps us in chains
I will die as old as I can get
I will hold on as tightly as humanly possible
And when I say I am free
I will always know what that means
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 11:57 PM UTC