Freedom Bid

Freedom Bid

 

By the ringing explosion I stumble

through the haze of a sulfurous mist

thick with burned smoke wafting into my nostrils.

There are faint screams, some laughter,

another round of sparkling colors.

I remember China had the first fireworks.

All of them were white.

Europe brought the pigments

which cause the brilliant colors seen today.

 

There is another explosion, someone screams.

I stumble forward, catch myself with my freehand

and continue moving close to the ground,

serpentine, there is another explosion.

Something strikes my head, my back,

I stumble again fighting to get away,

blood is dripping onto my shirt,

down my pants as I clutch the body

trying to reach the edge of the chaos.

 

Something zings past my head,

strikes and explodes in front of me.

Another explosion, someone cries out

and I wonder if they see the blood.

Someone is lighting another cannon

as another goes off, too close

my ears ring, where am I?

I hold tight to the body, stumble again.

“Fire in the hole!” someone cries,

but the smoke is too thick to see.

Where is my neighborhood?

 

I look down at the nub, wonder where his hand is.

He hangs limp, passed out in my arms.

Another explosion, I am deaf, someone grabs me.

He is taken from my arms,

They begin to scream at the sight,

a child, maimed on this day of freedom.

 

The smoke doesn’t clear my head.

Music rises and I hear troops sound the attack.

Bagpipes assume a gentle moan of sadness

down the street after the funeral

and I feel for friends that have met their ends

bleeding into the earth for greed and fear

fighting over lands possessed

by those strangers they called enemies.

 

Turf is a name, burned from the first wars

as tribes fought to rule those near enough

to control then across the sea,

from the back of a horse.

Armies are created in the declaration

of what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine.

 

Until..

 

I don’t like your culture and that too must end.

I don’t like your face, your eyes, or your skin

and in their wasted lands we begin again

to force-feed our regurgitated beliefs

digested and refed a thousand times over.

 

Perhaps…

 

One day we will tap into that which separates us

like thumbs from the apes and we will create

with the other instincts a new age

of renaissance will grow from the stem

of gray matter that resides mostly unused

behind the face of fear to fight the fight

which we portray to others hiding

in the rocks and hills grunting to survive

in the waste, after the governments

have crumbled to dust

and the machines begin to rust

 

But remember this…

 

Einstein knew, “World War IV

will be fought with sticks and stones.”

Division Bell

Division Bell

we live in the land of opportunity

holding very few truths to be…

self-evident that all men are created equally

just placed in different tax brackets

 

the rich get richer while the poor get

discouraged, angry and afraid

private schools educate,

while public schools segregate

with six degrees of separation between classes

as the bell rings for ditch diggers

in upper American neighborhoods

 

we live in the land of opportunity

with the exception of you and me

the economy is rated on a cracked bell curve

so we can get over the hump

and pass the bar into middle America

without the understanding

that there are a lot more of us,

then there are of them

 

pause for a moment of haiku:

-there is a reason

-when you look down from above

-we all look like ants

 

mindless drone here and there

mingling with no real purpose

living and dying by the whims of a queen

the believers say

“you can’t hide from the eyes of God”

while the god of commerce

watches on web cams

 

it’s getting harder and harder to hide

in the land of freedom

 

when the division bell is rung

the crack will shatter race and class

and all truths self-evident or alternative

and this sanctuary, this stolen wasteland

will truly be an endless land of opportunity

not for one, not for some… but for all

Pen Drop

Pen Drop

I cannot write because I don’t know what to say

I cannot write because no one wants to hear what I think

because its stupid

and if it’s not stupid no one will understand

and if they do, they still might laugh at me.

 

I will not write because only I can know what’s inside

the dark hurt and sadness

that kicks me awake in the middle of lonely nights.

this is my life and my pain matters only to me.

 

I will not write because I have learned

if you don’t open then you can’t hurt any more

and though you can’t hurt any less

it is not my concern

silence is my refuge

my only saving graceful salvation

 

no one knows

and no one cares

 

this is my life it isn’t yours

this is my life and I can handle it

this is my life and its ending

with each passing minute

 

I am small and I don’t deserve to be happy

the things that happen to me are my fault

and that can’t change

 

I am ugly

I am a monster

 

I will act out abuse and mutilate myself and others

with all the pain, drugs and sex I have ever known

I will not show, give or receive

the kindness or love I have never known

 

Fuck you, because you don’t know

Fuck you, because you can’t know

because you weren’t touched, beaten or raped

left bleeding in the corner until you passed out

you weren’t abandoned

told you were no good

wished they never had.

 

I will not write because you are not privy to my pain

I will not describe my fury

will not say does anybody hear me

does anybody understand

am I alone, because I am afraid

 

I will not connect because then

you will have the opportunity to fuck me

you will have the opportunity to make me cry

but I will not cry

I will hurt, but I will not hurt

I will add it to my fury

understanding

that this is all I have to keep me warm

 

why did they do this to me

when I didn’t want a lot

just a hug

just love,

not a lot just a little

 

So, I will not give of myself

I will sit with arms folded

I will sit in my silence

I will not open up

I will not write

even though, I just did.

Get’em While They’re Young

Get’em While They’re Young

 

The pied piper is a rat named Mick,

feeding on the youth,

thriving on innocence,

steeling our children,

because we haven’t paid him off.

 

It was a holy place,

a place where you went to get away,

a place of joy, fun, magic and mystery,

born and residing in fantasy.

The fantasy of the mind,

hopes and dreams to begin a life

imagining all possibilities

singing wishes upon starry nights

fireworks exploding behind grey castle walls.

 

You entered through the great iron gate,

stolen from Auschwitz with an inscription that reads

“the happiest place on earth.”

Recreated from “Abandon all hope ye…”

 

Leagues of children walk barefoot

down a diamond studded main street paved in gold

approaching the castle with its drawbridge up

the ones in the front stop, but are pushed forward

by the thousands of giggling behind.

All faces, all races, with no discrimination.

 

The screams are drowned out by the laughter

as the children in front fall and attempt to wade

through a moat of broken glass

that quickly turns into a red river

thick with children wailing and bleeding

piled high enough to storm the castle wall.

 

Beyond, a giant rat with great sharp teeth

standing atop a pink storybook building.

It’s a small world, the bell tolls

and the great pink doors open

for the youth to be taken

into the depths of industrial land

where children fight with razors

just to see who’s the favorite.

 

It’s the corner stone of big business

as somewhere in South America

a man stands in an alley wearing a suit

on his head a two-hundred dollar haircut

beneath two large round plastic ears

a very fanciful ‘D’ displayed on his name tag

in the darkness deals are made, drugs are sold

and traded to fill labor camps

because in South America,

children are cheap.

Lost Behind The Curtain

Lost Behind The Curtain

 

Living an unbelievable life,

imagined

like a hypochondriacs illusion,

dissolve into a fantasy.

 

Distort the reality with drugs

that hold the keys to big and small,

and makes it so easy to fire

the silver bullet heard round the world

to kill the beasts that lie lazy

getting fat on the misery of lives lived

in a consumers nightmare.

 

Acquire the latest E ticket item

sold in blue light sales

beneath the yoke of child labor

under a yellow skylight that expands

to absorb the first three planets

into nothing.

 

In the end, you can’t take it with you

being lost in the afternothing

that will everlast without the faith

of a greater possibility.

 

The Americans have the latest apparel

fads designed by G. O. D.

advertised by jailbait.

In the latest euro design

models walk in birthday suits

free to be their true selves.

 

Unzip the chest,

step out fat or thin

without implants,

makeup or liposuction.

 

The background beat

is an ultra new EDM gothic chant

spun in an epic battle

Bunny Mouse versus Buddy Christ

 

Take life to where the sidewalk ends,

strut, and turn, and turn

walk back with a thong waggle

full of cottage cheese

to wash away

the illusion of a lost reality.

Freedom Bid

Freedom Bid

 

By the ringing explosion I stumble

through the haze of a sulfurous mist

thick with burned smoke wafting into my nostrils.

There are faint screams, some laughter,

another round of sparkling colors.

I remember China had the first fireworks.

All of them were white.

Europe brought the pigments

which cause the brilliant colors seen today.

 

There is another explosion, someone screams.

I stumble forward, catch myself with my freehand

and continue moving close to the ground,

serpentine, there is another explosion.

Something strikes my head, my back,

I stumble again fighting to get away,

blood is dripping onto my shirt,

down my pants as I clutch the body

trying to reach the edge of the chaos.

 

Something zings past my head,

strikes and explodes in front of me.

Another explosion, someone cries out

and I wonder if they see the blood.

Someone is lighting another cannon

as another goes off, too close

my ears ring, where am I?

I hold tight to the body, stumble again.

“Fire in the hole!” someone cries,

but the smoke is too thick to see.

Where is my neighborhood?

 

I look down at the nub, wonder where his hand is.

He hangs limp, passed out in my arms.

Another explosion, I am deaf, someone grabs me.

He is taken from my arms,

They begin to scream at the sight,

a child, maimed on this day of freedom.

 

The smoke doesn’t clear my head.

Music rises and I hear troops sound the attack.

Bagpipes assume a gentle moan of sadness

down the street after the funeral

and I feel for friends that have met their ends

bleeding into the earth for greed and fear

fighting over lands possessed

by those strangers they called enemies.

 

Turf is a name, burned from the first wars

as tribes fought to rule those near enough

to control then across the sea,

from the back of a horse.

Armies are created in the declaration

of what’s mine is mine and what’s yours is mine.

 

Until..

 

I don’t like your culture and that too must end.

I don’t like your face, your eyes, or your skin

and in their wasted lands we begin again

to force-feed our regurgitated beliefs

digested and refed a thousand times over.

 

Perhaps…

 

One day we will tap into that which separates us

like thumbs from the apes and we will create

with the other instincts a new age

of renaissance will grow from the stem

of gray matter that resides mostly unused

behind the face of fear to fight the fight

which we portray to others hiding

in the rocks and hills grunting to survive

in the waste, after the governments

have crumbled to dust

and the machines begin to rust

 

But remember this…

 

Einstein knew, “World War IV

will be fought with sticks and stones.”

The Diary

The Diary

 

I found a diary beneath a tree the other day

and sat down to read a story about responsibility,

destiny, hope, love, and love lost.

There was a hero and a villain, in a true story

wrapped in a plane brown wrapper of parchment.

Plane brown wrappers I have learned

contain the most interesting reading

about everything under the sun.

I think I know how it ends…

 

Newsstands packed full, preach and teach,

advertise, not so subtly lending a hand to control.

Telling you, how to be, what to where, what to think,

not to think, not to wonder. Ask!

Question the status quo.

I want to be like Mikey likes it he’ll eat anything.

Keep up with the Jones, ignore the man behind the curtain

Spoon-fed on the Tele-dumbing us up, younger and younger

and I’m not finished yet…

 

I gently turn the weathered pages

of the book that crumbles in my hands

as I learn about doubt,

the reluctance to take the reins of a responsibility

given as a birthright.

It was written with a uniqueness to rival all

and set the standard for a future as yet untold.

It was written in a subtle voice

that would echo for hundreds of thousands of years

and change the world as we know it.

It read of peace starting and ending wars

over words spoken so softly that mountains shuddered.

I’m sure I know how it ends…

 

This is bull shit! Shit stacked as high as you

walking and talking with forked foreign tongues.

Pointing fingers in every direction except,

laying blame on everything else except,

putting responsibility on everyone else except.

In reading the begets, I think about the first hit,

the first stick, the first weapon, made to kill to eat,

made to defend, to survive,

forged to strike… to suppress opinion.

Violence begets violence as you point your finger

there are three pointed back at you

this should be the end, but I’m not finished yet…

 

I finished reading about a man in his voice,

told from his view of a world suffering

from violence, hate and anger all beginning from fear.

Fear of others.

Fear of the unknown.

Fear of the grass being greener.

It’s only a theory, but if someone told you

and you could not see it… You would fear it.

 

It was the diary of a reluctant messiah

that did not preach so much as simply walked and talked

about a place inside that was full of peace and kindness.

This he spoke and his words offended.

It was Chaucer and Shakespeare.

It was Hemingway and Steinbeck.

It was Plato and Mother Goose with twelve men in a tub.

It was Pinocchio begging to be just like everyone else.

 

there once was a man from Nazareth

whose birth we celebrate on Christmas

spoke of love not violence

and went before Pilate

who washed his hands

and released Barabbas

and got nailed to the cross

that Jack built

 

The diary had no real ending.

The story stopped halfway through a page

with a thorn as a marker.

The last line in the diary was,

“I do not wish this burden placed upon me,

but if it be your will, and for the sake of all, then so be it.”

I closed the crumbling book that fell to the ground.

It exploded in a cloud of dust

so I could not show it to anyone else, but

you know how it ends.

 

you have your knowledge your truth your beliefs

but be sure they are your own

have you looked and not prayed

have you read and not asked God to tell you

have you gotten out to meet and greet

shaken hands with different

races cultures and creeds

to understand the who, what and why

of that which you call your culture and your beliefs

are you sure you are not some unrecognized

carbon copy of parental circumstance

would you speak out if the Emperor had no clothes?

earth is decaying,

and mother nature slain

by mankind’s industry will die in a screaming cackle

laughing at the knowing of our suicidal genocide

or genocidal suicide depending on your point of view

even the believers have lost hope

they say were living in the end times

so what’s the point

fear begets anger, begets hate,

all of which beget violence

to see the results of violence

make a fist, the symbol of violence

did your nails in deep

until your own blood is spilt

then opening your hands

the end will become clear

momma said there’d be days like this

but it doesn’t have to be

all of the knowledge is right in front of us

but it seems we only use one percent of our brains

and that must be Adams fault

because he only took one bite of the fruit

I wonder, can anyone tell me,

how much knowledge

was left on the ground

to rot?