"hst" poems
“Ask me about my patches”
Was written in Sharpie on a piece of cardboard hung by string and Duck tape from
his backpack.
I didn’t dare ask.
I was late.
The image of hipster: gauged ears, lip and nose pierced, cut-off jacket vest, tight
black jeans, —and patches.
I didn’t dare ask him.
But I was forced to read the large one sewn across his back.
That’s when I realized my first judgment was wrong. Not an image: he was a force,
his patches his power.
That was all just a glance, just a memory of a patch of the face of a woman
with streaked black hair, a tear? its fading... but the words won’t.
The words that I won’t tell; the words that carry with them the power of
the history of man.
Not of humans, of man: man who has ruled this world, man who has buried mother earth
(alive) deep inside herself.
Who pinned her down and penetrated all orifices— inserting, and removing and inseminating;
making her pregnant with ********
Man—men—when did we do this? Who was the first among us to realize his
superior strength?
I don’t dare ask because I am not ready for the answer.
I am not ready to ask myself the questions that I feel but don’t know.
I realize when I pass someone on the street, I don’t know anything—every woman I see at
night has a past, every man and every child.
I don’t know any of it.
But, I do know some about the history of man.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 4:55 PM UTC
It's a fresh start
When all things shine
The way
You thought they'd
Be
But most
Everything
Isn't
The way
You thought
They'd
Be
Make do
Adapt
Life is
As it is
From the bad
And the
Good choices
You've made.
Throw passion in there
And see
What kind of maelstrom
You
Create.
I've attended no
Meetings,
No press junkets,
No glamour parties,
No welcome farewell's,
Yet I've seen the faces of victors and
Loser's and they all
Seem
To say the same thing:
It's not enough.
What isn't?
This life.
This life
Isn't enough.
The crowd
Goes
Silent.
The mob
Grows
Tranquil.
The masses
Shift in shape into a
Congenial blob.
What do you mean
This life
Isn't the best
That
IT
Can be?
If the land were to give an answer it would say:
It is forever eroding to something better.
If the sea were to give a response it would whisper:
It's tide is forever cycling for something better.
If the wind were forced say something it would shrug:
When I will, I will and you will of course feel it.
If this life
Were not enough
There would be
No
Hope
For something better -
For you - for I - for her - for him - for everyone.
It is a strange fact
That we forget ourselves subconsciously
Thinking of all selves
Consciously.
Advancement.
Progression.
Betterment.
Though we see these things as personal gain, we must
Remember
That every small feat for human kind in our small time,
Dually affected by our travesties and faults in our small time,
Affect said future, either crippling their thoughts in hate or
Allowing their thoughts to flourish
In freedom.
Every cloud in the sky
Appears
From nothing.
Yet it is there.
I've seen wind pass through the leaves of tree,
Like ghosts fingers through a child's hair.
I see it - the physical passing - and I admire the invisible
Touching and transcending the physical.
I am no closer to anything
Then the one
Sitting next to me but,
I know something is missing.
Something is amiss.
We are too connected to believe that the grass on the other side
Is greener.
So we are affronted with the fact that there is no great trail
That leads to ultimate happiness;
There is no great land that leads to salvation;
And as the great HST stated: the false belief that someone greater
Is attending the light at the end of the tunnel.
Let us be our own saviors.
Let us be our own light.
Let us be us with the trials and tribulations of the past but not affecting our said goals with injustice or prejudice or hate, but with unity.
Unity.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 2:42 AM UTC