Rambling Depression For Holiday Conversation

What goes up must come down

Especially egos.

Check the ego, kill the ego.

This is what buddha taught.

Or is this more gibberish from a mad mind?

Is it the lies we tell ourselves that make our opinions?

“Don’t talk politics this holiday.” Is the credo of the people

Who don’t want you to look in their closet.

You won’t just find skeletons in their,

You’ll find their klan hoods to.

So Often We Are Told

So often we are told

“It’s human nature.”

“It’s always been like this.”

“There is nothing I can do.”

You’ll cringe at a meme but not at these words?

Does jaded fear and hopelessness

Not shiver the spine of the unhumbled optimist?

It does.

So often we are told things that are not true.

There are no poetics here,

I am just tired.

Tired of hearing it,

So tired.

20 Years In Hell

20 years in hell.

6 months in purgatory.

Our was it just 1 month in county jail?

Time means nothing when your in shackles

Even though it is all they give you.

The filth and grime on the bottom of my bare foot replaces

any dignity I had.

And the cold, do not make me mention the cold,

Just the thought chills my corpse,

Not my body, I am no longer alive in this place.

They call it prison, but it is actually a morgue.

We are not people, we are corpses, and the cold preserves us.

Hell is only hot in the summer, usually it’s cold.

20 years in hell.

3 strikes your out.

20 years in hell.

The Old Songs In The New Day

The Old Songs in The New Day

The song that is playing

reminds me of a long forgotten philosophy,

a former method that was never lost

because it never could be found.

This is not literature from a street corner,

nor is it a contrived notion to put meaning

where it won’t belong.

So easy to forget,

too much to wonder,

question,

ask.

All production, all creation,

just a matter of will,

or privilege.

Discipline is such an ugly word,

and it does not echo.

The song had no echo either.

It gets repeated

and fades more and more

into the background each day.

As the song started long ago,

it won’t stop for a very long time.

It is hard to create

when creation is a burden.

I say we all create.

To make something

something totally from the self,

no matter what motive,

no matter,

another song,

another creation,

another question,

and another echo.

This time it lasts

just a little bit longer.

Simple Advice

Simple Advice

Simple advice

lost in a dragged out

rag of an expression,

simple advice,

or is it insight and reference

or religious cult practice?

Words are such a skewed method

of carrying our messages.

No fault is attended to the meter,

Life is not a bitch,

simple advice.

Economy doesn’t count for my decisions,

now wait for the chorus and the drop.

Simple advice,

free attention

now returns that sense of rhythmless

rhythm.

I will distract myself as my fortune.

But my distraction will be productive,

another drop and rise in the rhythm,

the chorus returns,

and the art I make is worth it.

When The Artist Gets It Wrong

When The Artist Gets It Wrong

For long and often

I have been compelled

To thrust my ideas forth onto the page.

Long collections and high stacks of notebooks

Make up abstract chronicles of my psyche.

Have I put these words down before?

Am I but a pawn of repetitions?

A nature I cured myself into?

Is my corner my own?

I was long fascinated by Marx,

Now I know what he meant.

What I have done and yet to do,

With all of life’s potential and conclusions

constantly playing

in their loud, auspicious ways.

I cannot ask for help,

Nor can I describe the sensation.

Ever so more I try,

And ever so often I fail.

Cannot an individual live,

In his own personal state of revolution?

Whom do I ask?

Who do I tell?

What truth is there

now that a key board is a soapbox?

Little it seems,

But I was wrong,

I was very wrong.

The Burden of Structure

The Burden Of Structure For The Artist

To bring but one pause

to the constant scream that plays in my thoughts,

that is all I ask.

Is peace so escapable?

So avoidable?

So unwanted?

I want to lay forth

and spew the excess realities

that burden me to this day.

Creation becomes an addiction,

there is no metaphor there.

I will stop this repetition,

for I envy the artists

for whom structure was no burden.