Everyday I walk around.
I don't understand what I'm seeing.
There is Stardust in my eyes.
It's fogged up my sight.
I see how everyone is the same.
With their Ugg boots, North Face Jackets,
iPhones, and Coach bags.

Just take off your empty frames and,
Get Stardust in your eyes.
See things through a vivid light.
Get Stardust in your eyes,
Be yourself and don't conform.
Get Stardust in your eyes,
And let your colors shine.

I thought I was weird.
With my off brand cloths,
And no internet on my phone.
With my black eyeliner,
And my rhythmic soul.
But my eyes are burning,
I'm exhausted from hiding.
I am who I am.

I've got Stardust in my eyes.
I see things through a vivid light.
Get Stardust in your eyes.
See the world as it really is.
Get Stardust in your eyes,
Be yourself and don't conform.
Get Stardust in your eyes,
And let your colors shine.

Be yourself, you Are unique.
With Stardust in your eyes, you see.
Don't follow the robot hipster army.
Get Stardust in your eyes,
And Shine!

“T'was the night before Christmas ...”
and Santa was busy.
The reindeer were antsy
the elves in a tizzy.

The missus was tending
the ovens like mad
And turning out cookies
to make children glad.

The wood chips were flying
the sawdust was thick
The workshop was bulging
with toys from St. Nick.

Contractors from Sega,
Nintendo and Sony
Were working on games
(and a robotic pony).

Iphones and Ipads
(with virus removal)
Were packed in their boxes
and stamped "Elf Approval".

Last minute touches
were added with flair
While elf stylists tended
to Santa's white hair.

Elf tailors were making
some last alterations
To Santa's red coat
and his waist tribulations.

The weather was fair
as the weather-elf stated
The routes were approved
and departure was slated.

Bells had been polished
and harnesses buffed
While repairs were addressed
for the hoofs that were scuffed.

The antlers were festooned
with ribbons and bells
And the reindeer were covered
with elf flying spells.

The clock approached
midnight as Santa was seated.
The countdown began
as the flight crew was greeted.

H-hour neared
and the tension was growing.
Outside it grew cloudy
and then, began snowing.

But Santa just grinned
as the weather-elf winced.
"Don't worry, my friend.  
Our time has commenced."

For the weather was nothing
to Santa's conveyance.
His reindeer and sleigh
were immune to"delay-ance".

With a whirl of his whiskers
and a flick of his wrist
The reindeer were launched
in a flash of white mist.

And I heard him exclaim
through his teleport ray:
"ALERT TSA. Tell 'em
I'm on my WAY!"

Money
Diamonds
Mansions
Ferraris
IPhones

None of this would matter if
I had no one to spend the money on
No one to give me the diamonds
No one to share the mansions with
No one to drive around with me
No one to call or text

What's the point of being a queen if you don't have a king

concrete shades the yellow-lighted symphony.
The peso-heavy take taxis;
security valets motors steaming castle gates.
I ask, which way is the 158?
Indifferent, they say, walk straight neath the freeway —
there is a bus stop two blocks away.

****.
****.
****.

Clocktower hands transpose Cindarella-brick
to embers of electricity,
a factory aside scrawled graffiti;
fingers timidly ricket pitchfork fences.
Palermo is 11 km north.
Where is the north star?

I look straight ahead, repeating what
the travel blogs said like,
Be lost, don’t look lost;
flappy plastic maps scream vulnerability.
Be lost, not rich;
iPhones in gotham alleys are batman signals.
Walk fast.
Don’t pay attention to the eyes that pass.
Careless ponytails and brass hair attract
glances back.

Two blocks deep into the homeless shelter
beneath freeways, blankets
in shopping carts toppled over,
cars screaming away the symphony
into shadowed silence between heels striking.
Tunnel breath emerging on the other side,
gasping past stacked Jenga towers,
wired with antennas and empty clotheslines;
families and crack ****** sleep inside.
Safety’s herd thins as  couples dart left down
cobblestone tributaries
that either lead to bus stops or parked cars.
I walk straight ahead with
sleeve-covered hands that swing like sticks
in the wind.
The symphony turns to
heartbeats and footsteps
plucking quickly;
fearing the 180 behind,
to zombies with sunken eyes,
thirsty for a thirty-cent high.

Always have my notebook with me,
‘cause they say the pen’s mightier than the sword,
so I’m trying to cut through the tension & the red tape,
with the power of these words,

on the ledge of The Razor’s Edge,
resisting these suicidal tendencies to jump,
feeling like Darrell with these quarrels,
trying to catch some feelings before we all go numb,

on the leading end of the Cutting Edge,
going for the gold like Doug & Kate,
& I know it took awhile but I’m here now,
my only hope is that I’m not too late,

leaning out on the leading edge,
deleting friends and repeating trends,
with suicidal tendencies and telepathic technologies,
already wrote the whole message just need to hit SEND,

as we immerse ourselves in these alien technologies,
and submerse ourselves in Emotional Anthropology,
all this done as a Road Scholar not a Rhodes Scholar,
no PHD or GED just knowledge for free without the college degree,

a one man School of Thought & class is always in session,
which is why I always have my pen with me,
as I write instead of type these thoughts,
before they become digital originals on your hand held screen,

same way that cash is becoming cryptocurrency,

holding my emotions in the palm of your hand,
which is kinda why I write these diatribes,
to remind you I’m alive inside and not yet fully an Android,
even though I’m on an iPhone feelings like an AI,

& the machines still need me,
because The System still needs you,
& AI still hasn’t found a way to be AEI,
can’t create Artificial Emotional Intelligence moods,

can’t be you not even with YouTube,
can’t be I not even with iPhones,
can’t sing a song or hum a tune,
can’t write anything close to something like this poem,

and that’s the truth and I’m not trying to be rude,
but I want to smack that phone right outta your palm,
‘cause Palm Pilots have us all on auto pilot like drones,
feeling like Luke in Episode II: Attack of the Clones!

& I just wanna go home but the closest thing I have is a home button,
it’s just Me, Myself & I on CBS with the All Seeing Eye & my iPhone,
got me wondering if this is all an act and the whole globe’s frontin’,
as I die inside while writing these diatribes they never miss you ‘till you’re gone,

& that’s exactly why I write these poems,
that have that melancholy testimony feel,
because everything feels phony on these phones,
and I just want to connect with some one or something that’s real,

so I write these Melancholy Testimonies,
as a discourse of our crash course that occurs sans remorse,
without recourse either of course because there’s no reverse,
plus we dig our own graves so it only makes sense we drive our own hearse,

& you can dispute if you want to,
but can’t really argue with truth I’ve done my research,

I mean I’m at a restaurant right now,
watching two guys eat together without even having a conversation,
they haven’t even looked up from their phones once,
I assume they’re friends but you wouldn’t know it by their lack of interaction,

eyes & attention given complete to their iPhones or Androids,
stuck in an upright fetal position head down neck cricked back bent,
which makes me want to stand up & warn them that if they don’t change their ways,
one day they’ll wake up dead and wonder where their live’s went,

we’re almost there folks,
take over almost complete,
& yeah maybe it took awhile but just ask Kurzweil,
we should have Singularity by 2040,

and I’m still writing,
trying to figure out how to defend humanity against defeat,
feeling like Sarah birthing this poem like Sarah birthed John Connor,
& we’re almost all goners as we all honor The Rise of The Machines,

but before we go,
please remember one thing,
that these Creative Arts were/are/will be,
our Last Bastion of Humanity,

because a computer can draw maps,
but can not draw a painting,
a computer can write codes,
but can not write poetry,

and that my fellow human,
is exactly why I keep writing,
to remind us to stay human,
& take a stand as we defend this Last Bastion of Humanity,

& I do this by always having my notebook with me,
‘cause they say the pen’s mightier than the sword,
so I’m trying to cut through the tension & the red tape,
with the power of these words…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
10/11/17
∆

Its 8:30 in the AM
The Corn Moon
is being routed by a
Manassas cloud bank

NPR be barking
Irma this, Irma that
my tremblin Rav4
stuck in the rush
is idling behind
a pair of gray hairs
spewing
leaded premium
out the back
of a big old black Buick
sportin Florida tags

inching north up I95
I’m relieved to be
a thousand miles
ahead of the
monstrous *****
denuding Barbuda
deflowering the
****** Islands
and threatening to topple
the last vestiges of
Castro’s Dynasty
by disrupting upscale
bourgeois markets
for cafe Cubanos,
cool Cohibas and
bold Bolivars

she’s a CAT 5
counterclockwise
spinning catastrophe
churning through
the Florida straits
bending steel framed
Golden Arches
shaking the tiki shacks
gobbling lives
defiling tropical dreams

the best
meteorological minds
on the Weather Channel
plug the Euro model
to plot a choreography
of Irma’s cyclonic sashay

they predict she’ll
strut her stuff
up a runway  
that perfectly
dissects the  
Sunshine State
ransacking
the topography
venting carnage
like battalions of
badly behaved frat boys,
schools of guys gone wild
sophomores, wreaking havoc
during a Daytona Beach
spring break
droolin over *******
popping woodies at
wet tee shirt contests
urinating on doorstoops
puking into Igloo Coolers
and breaking their necks
from ill advised
second floor leaps
into the shallow end
of Motel 6 pools

but I’m rolling north
into the secure
arms of a benign
Mid Atlantic Summer
like other refugees,
my trunk is
filled with baggage
of fear and worry
wondering
if there’re be anything
left to return to
once Irma
has spent herself
with one last
furious ****
against the
Chattanooga Bluffs of
Lookout Mountain

Morning Edition
Is yodeling a common
seasonal refrain
the gubmint is
just about outta cash
congress needs to
increase the debt limit

My oh my,
has the worm turned
during the Obama years
the GOP put us through a
Teabag inspired nightmare
gubmint shutdowns
and sequestration
shaved 15 points
off every war profiteers vig
it gave a well earned
long overdue
take the rest of the week off
unpaid vacation
to non essential
gubmint workers
while a cadre of
wheelchair bound
Greatest Generation
military vets get
locked out of the
WWII Memorial on the
National Mall

this time around
its different
we have an Orange Hair
in the office and there's
some hyper sensitivity
to raise the debt ceiling
given that Harvey
has yet to fully
drain from the
Houston bayous

the colossal cleanup
from that thrice in a
Millennial lifetime storm
has garnered bipartisan support
to  clean up the wreckage
left behind by a
badly behaved
one star BnB lodger
who took a week
long leak into the
delicate bayous of
Southeast Texas

yet we are infused
with optimism that our
Caucasian president
and his GOP grovelers
now mustered
to the Oval Office
will slow tango
with the flummoxed
no answer Dems
to get the job done

pigs do fly in DC
Ryan and McConnell
double date with
Pelosi and Schumer
get to heavy pettin
from front row seats
beholding droll  
Celebrity Apprentice
reruns

The Donald, Nancy and Chuck
slip the room for a little
menage au trois side action
transforming Mitch and Paul
into vacillating voyeurs
who start jerking their dongs
while POTUS, and his
new found friends
get busy workin
the art of a deal

rush hour peaks
static traffic grows
in concert with
a swelling  
frenetic angst
driving drivers
to madness
terrified
they won't
get paid if
the debt ceiling
don't rise
they honk horns
rev engines
thumb iPhones
and sing out
primal screams

unmindful drivers
piloting Little Hondas
bump cheap Beamers
start a game of
bumper cars
dartin in and out
of temporary gaps
uncovered by the
spastic fits and starts
of temporary
decongested
ebbs and flows

A $12 EZ Pass
gambit is offered
the fast lane
on ramp
has few takers
just another
pick your pocket
gubmint scheme
two express lanes
lie vacant
while three lanes of
non premium roadway
boast bumper to bumper
inertness
wasted fuel
declining productivity
skyrockets
the  wisdom of
the invisible hand doesn't
seem to be working

DOJ bureaucrats
In Camrys and Focuses
dial the office
to let somebody
know they’ll
be tardy

gubmint contractors in
silver Mercedes begin
jubilantly honking horns
NPR has just announced that
Pelosi and Schumer
joined the Orange team
the rise in the debt ceiling
will nullify their 15%
sequestration pay cut

NPR reports the
National Cathedral will
deconsecrate two hallowed
stained glass windows of
rebel generals R E Lee
and Stonewall Jackson
it's a terrible shame that
the Episcopal Church
will turn its back on the
rich Dixie WASPS
who commissioned these
installations to commemorate
the church's complicity
in sanctifying the
institution of slavery,
WWJD?

as I ponder
this Anglican
conundrum another
object arrests my
streaming consciousness
upsetting an attention span
shorter and less deep
than the patch of oil  
disappearing under the front
of the RAV as I thunder by
at 5 MPH

to the left I eye a
funny looking building
standing at attention
next to a Bob Evans

I’m convinced
Its gotta be CIA
a 15 story
gubmint minaret
a listening post
wired to intercept
mobile digital
confabulations
from crawling traffic
inching along
beneath its feet

this thinking node
pulsing with
intelligence
reeking with
counterintelligence
the tautological
contradiction
guarantees the
stasis of our
confused
national consciousness

strategically positioned to
tune into the
intractable Zeitgeist
culling meta code
planting data points
In Big Data
data farms
running algos
to discern bits
of intelligence
endeavoring to reveal
future shock trends
knows nothing
reveals less

the buildings cover
is its acute
conspicuousness
gray steel frame
silver tinted glass
multiple wireless antennas
black rimmed windows
boldly proclaim
any data entering
this cheerless edifice
must abandon all hope
of ever being framed
in a non duplicitous
non self serving sentence

the gray obelisk a
national security citidel
refracts the
fear and loathing
the sprawling
global anxiety
our civilization's
discontent
playing out
in the captive
soft parade
ambling along
the freeway jam
imobilized
at its stoop

Moning Edition jingle
follows urgent report of
FEMA scamblin assets
arbitraging Harvey and Irma
triaging two
tropical storm tragedies
and a third girl
just named Maria
pushed off the Canaries
and is on its way to a
Puerto Rico
homecoming

while
gubmint  bureaucrats
anxiously push on
to their soulless offices
the rush hour jam
has peaked
my WAZE
is having a
nervous breakdown

next lane over
a guy in a gold PT Cruiser
is banging on his steering wheel
don’t think this unessential worker
will win September's
civil servant of the month award

Ex Military
K Street defectors
slamming big civie
Hummers
getting six mpg
lobby for a larger
apportionment
of mercenary dollars
for Blackwater's
global war on terror

Prius Hybrids
silently roll on
politely driven by
EPA Hangers On
hoping to save
a bit of the planet
from an Agency Director
intent on the agency's
deconstruction
the third 500 year hurricane
of the season
is of no consequence

obsolete
GMC Jimmy’s
are manned by
Steve Mnunchin
wannabes
the frugal
treasury dept
ledger keepers
pour good money after bad
to keep the national debt
and there clanking
jalopies working

driving Malibus
DOL stalwarts
stickin with the Union
give biz to GMC

nice lookin chicks
young coed interns
with big daddy doners
fix their faces and
come to work
whenever they want

my *** is killing me
I squirm in my seat
to relieve my aching sacroiliac
and begin to wonder if my name
will appear on some
computer printout today?
can’t afford an IRS audit
maybe my house will
be claimed by some
eminent domaine landgrab?
Perhaps NSA
may come calling,
why did I sign that
Save The Whales
Facebook Petition?

The EZ Pass lane
is movin real easy
mocking the gridlock
that goes all the way
to Baltimore
a bifurcated Amerika
is an exhaust spewing
standing condemnation
to small “R”
republicanism  

glint from windshields
is blinding
my **** is hurtin and
gettin back to Jersey
gunna take a while
GPS recalcs arrival time

an intrepid Lyft driver
feints and dodges
into the traffic gaps
drivin the shoulder
urging his way to the
Ronnie Reagan International
I'm sure
gettin heat from
a backseat fare
that shoulda pinged
an hour earlier

Irma creeps
toward the Florida Keys
faster then the
glacial jam
befuddling congress

I think I just spotted
Teabag Patriot
Grover Norquist
manning a rampart
bestriding a highway overpass
he’s got a clipboard in hand
checking the boxes
counting cars
taking names
who’s late?
who’s unessential?

man
whatta jam we're in

Music Selection:
Jeff Beck: Freeway Jam

Orlando
9/21/17
jbm

No one ever looks up
unless they're desperate for someone
to be looking down.
From a secular point of view,
the blue resembles passive disappointment,

while ******* clad oaks scream at business on the sidewalks.
Five-hundred dollar spectacles don't christen sin-wrought oxygen,
pure, spring water is perfect as the grey sog seeping from the seams,
benevolent ******* makes every trouble white sand
and iPhones can only do so much for a borrowed morality.
Bright eyes fade with the morning wind.