What goes up must come down
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
“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?
So often we are told things that are not true.
There are no poetics here,
I am just tired.
Tired of hearing it,
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 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,
All production, all creation,
just a matter of will,
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,
and another echo.
This time it lasts
just a little bit longer.
lost in a dragged out
rag of an expression,
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,
Economy doesn’t count for my decisions,
now wait for the chorus and the drop.
now returns that sense of rhythmless
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
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
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 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?
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.