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,



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.

A Hand Over the Heart Does Not Feed a Hungry Child

Our content Mass production,

due favors in south outlier

and a perisistant traveller’s call for a prayer

of peace.

Tell me kid,

did you know there was a future in such

a romaceless field?

Distracted petty feuds

as it all begins to crumble

and become rebuilt.

Violence and rhetoric

in the names of things like patriotism

and overdue acts of symbol.

But will a symbol feed a child

will a gesture heal our heroes

will condesencion change anything

and is willful idiocy to be tolerated?

Patience is indeed a virtue

but must never become a weakness.

Ignorance is not to be a social tolerant,

and spirituality is foresaken in people

who see no end to their consumption,

no problems either.

A decade to look back on

and youthful disposition is yet to change.

Why must we kill our innocence?

Can we not indulge the senses

and still open our hearts to the old truths?

I say we can.

I say that we may,

and I say that we will.


Chartered Words, Uncensored

Synonymous desperation,

sacrificing morals, principles, and an upbringing,

just to eat

and bare shelter.

The guilds and fealties of our past,

are only more passive now,

but they are still real.

Diverted funds feed me dinner,

and the shame of another sacrificed oath

is flushed along with my humors,

and vile contempt

otherwise hidden from my dependants

as a virtual scribe.


Sweet Lady of our Mass Production.

Over-packaged literature,

and mass production.

Where is our savior street artist now?

Do not patronize me,

for better or worse

there must be benevolence to art.

The romantic dialoque of the starving struggle

is no movie based happy ending.

For in real life,

the story carries on the next day.


Statements of The Modern

Broken Woes,

The Soul of Man under Socialism,

and other important childrens books.

Would banning the bible in schools

increase it’s sex appeal?

Ah, sweet blasphemy

and an anachronistic marriage,

and a lie.

Rot in jail,

or pay the ticket,

still in the end

old songs become relevant again.


New Word

New word,

passive lacking in detail,

no lie,

just late facts and a painful shrug.

Tedious narcotic anxiety and an even older

annoying habit.

We are in fact addicted to our emotions,

and some are more toxic than heroin.

Anger kills brain,

and fear, the heart.

Trapped in adolescent disposition,

a generation,

of late lies.


The Ponderings of Memories Clenched 

To wit and be not known

and strength.

See to wit,

and matter disproportioned,

in ever lasting concept.

What times do we live in,

when our young read stories of their no future.

What now done for our children,

what now done

in dialogue for truth and politic.

Another build up of hope,

or just more foreplay?

There is never a hero in a necktie,

remember that.

But we still need a horse to pull the chariot

that we call country.

The post modern game of thrones,

and it is still the people who pay the price.