Here we are,
Another conceited notion
At hope for humanity.
Wrapped in delusion
And on the other side ignorance.
Where heart doesn’t exist there is only stone.
No one cares when you break stone,
No one should.
Stone has no use except for building,
Heart brings us family, light, and love.
But who cares about any of that,
Just another poetic disposition from the cliche starving artist.
Just another conceited notion, that people might actually be good.
Modern Times
Much can be said
of the dimension of time in our times,
Our messy haired Aristotle
was right for once.
Gravity and forces of nature and such,
Fear of the uncertain standards,
and “dying” mediums.
What can be said of our time?
Our age?
Not the one of beautiful nonsense,
We are a time but of constant gasps.
Gasps at the unspoken dialogues,
And painful arguments long overdue,
So what can be said?
Much,
Much can be said and much more,
But words, only words.
Selfless Expression
Forgotten means of expression,
Therefore no self expression ordained.
What is the difference between either?
It is self.
Obvious, no?
yet not.
Yet never be distilled in the heart and minds
of self and ideal idols.
Wasting on the cultural construct,
On the timing of lost control,
Of lost self.
A repeated, tired theme,
and old ideal.
All of them themes repeated.
A constant cycle.
Today it breaks.
Today the cycles circle no more,
Old idols fall when they have no truth
or honor.
We live in the era where old idols fall,
And justly so.
The machine breaks down,
so do our machine minds.
To breakdown in secret,
In toil and pain,
Perspective is one thing,
And shame wastes time.
No victim deserves the shame,
No child.
We live in the era where our idols fall,
And it’s justly so.Identity
Fix and free thy self from yourself.
Indulge for you and not validation.
A validated lie is a lie all the same,
even when we call it Identity.
So break the chains,
and be free from the lies
The lies that are, hold, and make Identity.
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 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.
No ideas, but all the motivation.
All the reasons to do it yet no reason at all.
Like a marathon, hitting a wall.
Just spit it out,
Put it on the page! Put it on the Page!
Forget if it makes sense, forget the grammar and spell checks.
Fuck making sense.
Just put it on the page,
Gibberish or garbage is better than nothing.
Just put something on the page.
Reading a book alone in the Redwood Forrest
On the observational scale,
I do sit here in the redwoods in lotus pose,
with a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
on a stack of logs next to me.
What is the catch?
Is that but the paranoid disillusionment
of the redneck hippies near by
just now learning that they aren’t the real rebels?
They are not heroes,
They can only dream of being such.
The true meaning of center,
of the power of human capability,
If only imagined,
that is all we are,
Then that is the best
and the worst
of our imaginations.
What Place Do The Artists Have in Revolution?
PRODUCE!
Must produce content!
For fame,
For a following,
Quite literally and painfully so,
thanks to the stench of both words.
To produce is to manufacture,
To manufacture is to produce.
The workers are the ones who produce,
So the artists,
the writers,
the creators,
we are the workers to.
We are a part of that thing called revolution,
And we must forgive Marx for forgetting us.
Artists!
Artists of the world, unite!
We have nothing to lose but our chains,
We have everything to gain
when we gain the freedom to create!
