For years, they stole and robbed from our pockets.
For years, they murdered what faith we had,
Killed what hope we gained for ourselves.
Poverty loomed over us like death, the
Loss of materialistic payment. Currency controls;
We have none.

Beginning with a silly addition to parchment and paper.
A "stamp act," if you will. Oh, the rarity of a few extra
Coins to spend on a cake for the mistress!
Rebellion and violence against the act increased,
The Sons, the ones of Liberty left
Blood splattered on the ground we walk on.
Fear installed in the hearts of agents,
Collecting and shivering as coins ring in their satchels.
Soon, though, they left. Resigned and replaced themselves with
Another thief.
The Townshend- adding cents more to imported,
Provided, goods. The people starved for things
They need and can not afford.
Naive. They had materials. They had the skill,
But no need to use what they contained in their minds
And their bodies.
Begin the new world! Spin your own yarn and twine!
Build your own shoes! You don't need the goods
From old English factories and makers.

The disagreements and retaliation, the lack in
Morality in the brainwashed heads of soldiers.
A bothered redcoat drew his gun, leaving holes,
Horrible voids.
The dive from cliff to cliff, swing from tree to tree,
The ****** of blood and
The determination to be freed from the grasp of
A controlling monarchy.
The greed they exhibit and the cruelty.
Revenge for taking what is ours?
Sweet tea, English tea,
Soaked in the harbor. The tax will be no more!

The need for peace, rejected by one
Who wanted control and a steady reign.
The isolation, suffocation of the new land like an
Abused child.

It was only a matter of time before the child ran away.

We play with the past,
us gawkers
laugh out louders
and marry the fun. Or
purchase t-shirts to remember

The Thinker plopped upon a porcelain throne
Rodin in the bowl
a powerful internal struggle
philosophy flushed for comedic blue cleanser
carved beautifully

The Vitruvian Man in full windmill
Townshend style
over strings in sextuplicate with limbs to match.
Perfection at eight heads high and
these amps go to eleven

The Persistence of Memory in any variation
so long as we don't have to consult our own dreams
Or Dali's

We shake the dust from our
feet and smile, forgetting things like The Thinker
was originally named The Poet
because that's not funny
and we're cleverer (more clever?) cleverer than that

Emotional firerides, snow filled glyphs,
Plantationed homes, bars to the stove, no lipstick to thy lips!

Pale faces creep Townshend banjo's. Stature has no wayward end! Death can be friend or foe, moles can be packrats where bookbagged books are quite old!!!

Violinic apathy, tunes are all grasping me, April, April come around thine deathly bend! Whom shall make it? When these doors swing to pickaways end...

Crushed  dispair, **** city blues to stretch ones hair, art thou fair?  Danzel of maidens,seeker of fair trade-ins,lovers love, a sin for thine sin!!

Where shalt I begin?

When shall this end?

Folk homestead, show me your Colorado's scenes,where paintings are reality, and fantasies are dream's!!!

A century,
100 years,
Almost 1,200 months,
A hair over 5,214 weeks,
36,500 days,
Et cetera and Ad Nauseam.

A lot of time,
To build,
To demolish
To create,
To destroy.

But even with it all it is just a grain of sand that's in the hour glass.

But let's narrow our discussion here,
Let's just say part of one year,
More specifically 118 days.

Prose thoughts and insomniatic ramblings given a cohesive direction.
And a long time passion project procrastinated until now.

A lot can happen in 100 years,
Hell,
A lot can happen in 100 seconds,
Your bloods makes 5 complete laps in your body,
The Earth moved 3,000 kilometers,
And the average human being has 70 thoughts.

Imagine if you just latched onto one of those fleeting thoughts,
Seeing which way it took you,
New ideas perhaps?
Perhaps you remember something you long thought lost.

Again,
Et cetera and Ad Nauseam.

The air is thick,
Grey eyes bloodshot from the cigarette smoke and lack of sleep.

Townshend in a rare role,
As he holds court over the airwaves.
Warning of the masks worn by those who derailed others while rising to the top,
Their vices always taken to an extreme.

The night air is finally cooling down,
It's gentle waves giving me occasionally goosebumps.

drunk on townshend and happiness
I don't know if I will ever stop dancing

Iron lords are heavy
Not of just heart
Heavy handed, pete townshend, who are you
The whole 9 yards
Dressed to the nines
Iron bars secure
My iron lord
Glides the metal ghost
On metal tracks

Savor your true heart
Lest it be replaced
By the beam of some structure
A bullet or brace
A bolt or a brandish
A **** or a ball
A chain or a chainsaw
The richest of all

Iron lords adorned
With beads of iron truth
Against living flesh it feels cold
And the room
Buckles in
Like the edge of your death
And pulls through
And leaves you on the other side
With nothing to feel
And open nerve endings

When the truth is iron
It can be blunt or sharp
But keep it away from your ever-loving heart
Or just move to Holland
To the lovely fields of flowers
And stay away from the poppies
Skirt around that graveyard