The Coils of Time

The black and brown shirts,

They had their season.

The reds had several too.

They had their reason.

These are not things

To condone

To aspire to

To be proud of

To easily give way to

But like a cold winter,

Or a forest that burns,

They are the way

That history’s tail turns.

Through good and bad

Towards some end,

So the snake’s head

Can again ascend.

After a hot season of excess,

The serpent coils back around,

Into a cold winter,

To put our feet back on the ground.

Untitled Draft

Unkel Sam. He dead?

A last breath:

            The sound and the fury…

            The sound and the fury…

                        It signifies

A people hollowed out by:

Text without context

Image without meaning

Sound and fury

Pandering and pleading

Pleading for you

To save us from their fears

Crass and base calls

Greeted with loud cheers

(All of this is only about

Because your mother is out…)

At the heart, the dark heart, of the story:

Mad souls that must be recalled

            That were once

                        (If it is to be believed)

            Moral and idealistic

Now mad,

consumed with ambition

            fame, fortune

At best, with getting things done

            At all costs.

Things out of touch

Things unrealistic

Things unwanted

Things that divide

It signifies a horror.

            A darkness we will plunge ourselves into

                        Confusing it with light.

This is the way:

With a bang

They push us on

            Into the jungle

to make themselves gods

            We whimper

            And get dragged into a wasteland

                        salvation, or progress.

Leaving us outside the kingdom, and each alone

Entertraping:

Glazed eyes. Empty head.

A laugh—

            Amused into your place, to obedience

Action/ Adventure on a screen

Hooked with a bang

and released with a whimper…

A bang and a whimper…

Bang and whimper.”

            It eggs us on.

            To carry on, and not question.

Open minds.  No values, no judgments.

A society awash in amusements.

Really, we are

Empty minds.

They are taunting us with a bang

That is always just to come.

All I can manage is a sigh.

No anger

No shouting

No fear

No whimper

A sigh...

(And when they are wrong, a cynical laugh.)

The answer is beyond

                        Good and evil

                                    Or evil and its lesser.

It is in the twisted and knotted banality

            Of our everyday lives.

                        Overlooking

                        Over (mis)informed

                        Under (mis)represented

                        Under estimated

An indulgence in incivility

That makes us feel more real

Behind the sound and the fury

            Lies the horror

            Of a story woven out of shrewd ambition

            Told to a society

Behind the sound

And the fury

            Hides the horror, the horror

Behind the primping

And the pandering

           Oh, the horror, the horror

Realization

I am the wild one,

Thoughts unpredictable

            But systematic. 

Chasing a situation

As it winds down

the drain.

Thinking thoughts of the world

As both the thoughts and the world

            Evaporate.

Left with only our impressions,

I move on (Sometimes calm, sometimes frantic),

            Alone in the realization. 

A Broken Narrator

I can’t tell a story anymore.

There is no beginning or end.

No development…

Just facts,

Themes,

Truths…

I don’t have a plan anymore.

Things just happen,

And I react.

No goals…

Just events,

Happenings,

Functions

            Of a non-existent plot.

I don’t need sentences anymore.

Just the words are enough.

Dictionaries tell us the meanings.

            No context is needed. 

Of Gods and Heroes and Men

We have heard of gods.

Those great beings:

       Their stories told to us sometimes still.

They were seen by those before us,

       But those we have never met.

We have been told of heroes.

Those of us who are older,

       Even saw those great men.

Their stories still hold sway,

       Over us and our lives.

We know men.

The people we see

       Everywhere we go.

They fill our minds

       And the halls of power.

Those enchanted by the stories of gods,

       Make men into gods now.

                   Or at least prophets.

They are great; they needs this greatness.

Those that knew or love heroes,

       Make heroes of every man.

                   Or at least any man.

They see in popularity or wit a divine ordination.

Many learn to see humanity as divine, sacred

       And organizations as heroes.

                   Or at least the best that humanity can be.

They see only the big picture and what should be.

And they miss the true beyond,

       As they collapse it

                   Into the here and now.

They also miss the here and now,

       As they color it too thick

                   With shades of the beyond.

Living in a synthesis

       That took only the least or worse

                   From each conflicting side.  

On The Balcony (Escape)

I sit outside

            Late

            On the balcony.

                        (How I wish I had a fire escape.)

With a cheap cigar and a drink—

            A chill in the air,

                        And in my body—,

                                    I wait.

I don’t want to sleep.

            I don’t want my bed.

                        Don’t want its comfort,

                                    Or any comfort.

            (The drink, the cigar and the chill of the air

                        Will more than do.)

It is an escape.

            From:

                        The mill of the every day.

                                                (Not bad, but a grind.)

                        The commotion of a loving but busy home.

                                                (Which loves and fulfills, but distracts.)

            But not from my thoughts.

Thoughts that are torn.

            Bewteen:

            The “News of the World”

                        And the thoughts of ‘dead white men.’

I sit here in the absurd.

            (The between of the irrational and the rational.)

            (To be here and to report…. It seems to be my vocation.)

Giving way to, or staying,

 In the world,

                        Emphasizes the irrational—

                                   Which has become the normal and the habit—

                        Over the rational:

The words and books

 speak not just to my mind

                        But to my heart and soul,

                           Which are steeped in the traditions 

                                       that gave birth to our present.

Giving way to the books,

            It isolates me… Makes me a non-factor.

                        Puts me at odds with everyone

                        And everything (every technology).

                                    Alienation, uselessness and then angst.

This chilly, empty and quiet desert

                        Where alone is good

                        Allows me to think,

                        And think that thinking can be done

                                    And (in some way) do good.  

It allows me to think,

            At least for now. 

Important Matters(?)

As if lives matter,
We live and die
No matter. 
                         (There is no avoiding it.)
As if nothing matters,
We live and die
Mad as hatters.
                         (You only live once.)
As if matter matters,
We live and die
Growing fatter.
                         (The highest score wins.)
The matters that matter?
We live and die.
So what is the matter?
                         (We are post-modern
                         and pro-matter.
                         Nothing else matters.)

Out of Habit

That morning,

    When you are out of coffee.

So what?

    You drink Sambuca instead.

Without

    the coffee.

Instead of the other way around. 

The world

            Is all a bit different.

Like when

            You left home for the first time.

Not booze.

     Not dreams.

What you do and think changes what’s around.

Just like

            How it all changed on that day.

The day

            After your graduation.

Routine,

    All gone.

Evaporated, only crystals remain.

In the gems that remain, what is distilled and left,

You can re-shape your world though habits, by first thinking,

And then by acting that way, not the other way around. 

Stolen: A Paranoid’s Confession of Faith

My freedom is stolen:

            My actions and body are not my own;

            I am kept as a slave.

My aspirations are stolen:

            My future is out of my power to control or decide;

            I am stuck in this caste.

My labor is stolen:

            I toil for the scraps they give me;

            They own what I produce.

My thoughts are stolen:

            Society and the media control my mind;

            I can’t think on my own.

My desires are stolen:

            My DNA and instincts control what I want;

   I am only a beast.

My charity is stolen:

            In every act they find an ulterior motive;

            To them, I give only to help myself.

 My children are stolen:

            The state and the media tell them what to think and what to be;

            They are not mine to shape and raise.

My community is stolen:

            I am only a source of money and labor to those around me;

            I am what I consume and exist to be consumed.

My needs are stolen:

            I always need what is just beyond my reach;

            This treadmill just won’t stop.

My religion is stolen:

            I am told what to believe without explanation;

            Or I am told I can’t believe without proof.

I am never mine.

I am never me.

They only take.

They always interfere.

Alienation is my human condition.  

Glass Cage

Little Glass

You can see me
Thought that little screen
Can I reach you
As I smile and preen

Sometimes you can hear me
In those plugs in your ears
I count your approval
But no one hears or cheers

Do you know me
Is there anyone on my side of the glass?
Or do I know you
Is it really just my reflection in the glass?

Am I real enough to be offendable
When you are crude or brash
Are any of us dependable
Will we be there if the networks crash

There is such a closeness
When I can slip you in my pocket
I can carry you all
In that little glass cage

It is better than a lock of hair in a locket
I have you all on that glowing page

To Believe

Heidegger said that only the gods can save us,
And Bret Michaels asked for something to believe in.

Heidegger knew that gods can only save if we believe,
And Bret didn't realize that there is so much to believe in...

                        If only we want to be saved.

But we don't want to be saved;
We want to win,  to progress,  to conqure.

To get there,  we need to know, to be certain,
And we believe that believing just gets in the way.  

My Mind

"I can't stand my own mind."*
Standing over my shoulder
Minding all my business,
As the world keeps getting colder.

With a heavy thickness
Hiding just how cynical
My view of the world is,
I yearn for the mythical.

Not believing what is,
Trusting more than what is seen.
I seek what is deeper,
The substance behind the sheen.

What permeates deeper?
The context and the meaning.
What binds it together?
The truth behind the seeing.  

* From Allen Ginsberg's America.  A poem I have a "love/hate" relationship with.