"sunfires" poems
...The world is a comedy
on its knees
pretending
that everything's alright
Spreading the hate
through the teachings
of love
and we love this hypocrisy because
it gives us the reason to
blame
Ideas clash in the confusion
of sunfires
through never ending circles
and the victims are
we
Electric blue on a
live wire
defines who by what
And the suit
makes a monkey
the man
Truth is
we can never be
who
we really are
anymore...
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 6:55 AM UTC
It was the anthem of an era – a short-lived era,
and I think only those of us who lived there
could have detected it at the time.
**** you, I'm punk."
There is constant reinvention, recreation, but
I am sure it will never be the effortless –ism it once was.
We are accessible now, but we were visible then.
We were the spectrum, we were the speed,
an onslaught of red Sunfires and green T-Birds.
There were nights I could swear (to whatever God was to me then)
that I had seen every last one of them trickle in or out,
sometimes all at once.
There were days I was a constant, an observer,
terrified of missing whatever "it" wound up being.
Most of the time, I was seemingly absent – maybe soulless, even.
With coaxing, I would be brought back from stratospheric distances
to a camaraderie that seems sacred now.
None of us thought it so back then.
The grip we thought we needed always seemed to elude us.
What we did have was vital to us all,
though we couldn't admit such vulnerability –
our eyes bugging out and our hearts caving in.
And now, knowing the future is destined to be wavy and unknown
like the tracers leaving callous brushstrokes behind everything they see,
I realize how the brick sidewalk was a sight for sore eyes if I ever stood staring at one,
motionless.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 11:12 PM UTC