Poetry-Thing Thursday: Freedom Was Nice

Generals reign with unhindered powers.
A clock turns slowly through the hours.
Their dawning day shall be ours.

Walk through a forest but return home alone.
Sense the rain-fall coming soon.
Rationalize senselessness as logic.

Through and through.
Black and blue.
Sound turns you on and tunes you out.
Religion makes you fear what isn’t there.

Lift an insect ‘pon a finger,
see it as precious;
a child’s pet with love-eternal.

Life and death.
Short of breadth.
Loss of breath.
Birth, rebirth,
for math and worth.
Fire and ice.
Freedom was nice.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Still Sleep

The air is thick, muggy.
The effect of too many
pollutants,
toxins,
and age-old ideologies.

Ours is a way,
only violence knows.
One where green grass,
never grows.

When we were young,
we dreamed of such things.
But they were nightmares,
and tore us from sleep.
They made us weep.

Now, before our waking eyes,
the world burns,
and all point their fingers at us.
But we did none of it,
the fuse had long been lit.

Now, the rashness of ignorance,
is a cloud of omnipresent fumes,
that we all must breathe.

And we wonder if we’ll keep.
And we wish we didn’t weep.
And we would rather still sleep.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Embodiment

If only we’d known,
what freedom would bring,
we might have stopped it,
before we’d sing,
of such beauties and reverie.
that have been nothing but lies,
brave and free? Unlikely.

Here, it is all for the highest bidder,
if in politics or power.
Everything else,
the lowest.
Anyone that disagrees,
called heretics, traitors.
For money’s the master,
in this brave new world.
While Orwell’s spinning corpse,
nears perpetual-motion disaster.

Society may have order,
but it is flawed at its core.
Temporary-cure for permanent chaos,
when knowledge is a bore.
A few years from now,
centuries, millenia,
people will watch the collapse
all asking, “how?”

The truth is,
it’s our fault.
Here and now.
We are as children,
no adult around.
We whimper,
whine, stray,
claiming we can hold things dear,
our hands to our ears.

What bullshit.
We are the embodiment,
of our own worst fears.

Short story: Blue Collars and No Dollars

I still maintain mental health care is the world’s number one issue. Either the lack of it, or the quality of it– or in most places, the stigma of it. Kind of ironic given the circumstances, but life’s funny like that. Un-life and the ending of life too. We– humans that is– always seem to recognize seconds too late the glory around us; mountain ranges behind misty-veils; ravines cut into sandy deserts; the moon and stars beyond light-polluted cities. We only realize the greatness after its gone… or we are.

Makes you think.

Well, not really, but it should. We should all think.

That’s the mantra of this dying one, anyhow. There’s ravines in me now; crimson rivers flowing through gray mists. Or I think so. I doubt anyone’ll blame me if I’m wrong. Even if they did, I’m as “out of fucks to give” as anyone can be, living or dead. That’s the great truth of my generation. We learned how not to give a shit so efficiently and thoroughly it’s killing all of us off.

That’s the meat of the thing, why I’m shuffling off this mortal coil. Even if I hadn’t finally decided to show myself the door, society would’ve. They’ve been looking for ways to throw me out of it my whole life. Like the billion and more other people, I’m just not quite up to snuff. Seems evolution went and decided brains and brawn weren’t necessary in any quantities for some, let alone equal quantities. Like the rest of my ilk, I’ve occupied a middle ground that can’t really exist in the world.

And now this…

Things have gone to hell. I’d mean that literally if I weren’t so certain hell couldn’t be this bad.

Bitch, bitch, bitch, right? The world’s rough, and you gotta’ be tough to survive, right? Right. So what am I on about? And why? What could possibly be bad enough to make a whole generation show themselves the door like I am?

Well that’s the thing; everything. Everything could be so bad.

From the housing market to the healthcare system, to the job prospects and the outright value of human life in society, it’s all bad. And bad in a way that makes dying preferable, and the only way to make a difference.

We can’t war. Not really. We could riot, and get gassed. We could raise arms, and be utterly run through by the National Guard and various militaries– our elder brothers and sisters, commanded by our parents and grandparents. But rather than resort to fratricide we’ve decided, more one-by-one,en-masse than as a group, that suicide’s the better alternative. The first few of us left elaborate messages and letters. Of course these were only revealed through hear-say and rumor, but ultimately the message was “what other options do we have?”

That’s the sad part of it. If there’s anything more distressing than the rest, it’s that. We have no options left. We’re facing death no matter what. Either by starvation, disease, exposure, or outright murder for daring to want better. We’re all going to die before our time– whatever the hell that means.

Or most of us are. The lucky few suckling the tits of their wealthy-elite parents, or those sycophantic and sociopathic enough to get into the closed circles, they’ll survive. But the blue-collars and no-dollars, in other words the vast majority of us? We’re fucked. Too bad it’s that same elite’s downfall too. In the end, the human race are the ones that’ll suffer most. Admit or not, they’re human too. Our great pain will be over when our great depression ends with us six-feet under.

All told, we’ll have the last laugh. Even if, by some ridiculous stroke of luck, the human race doesn’t end up killing itself off entirely in the wake, the majority will still have died out. Or let themselves out, however you wanna’ phrase it. With us go the hopes and dreams of a better future not involved in maintaining the status quo of wealth v. health, greed v. need.

In other words, gone will be the hope of healing Humanity’s current sadomasochistic streak. Maybe I’m belaboring things. Maybe I’m being vague. I guess that happens when the great beyond’s waxing and the great-whatever-this-is is waning.

My personal story isn’t interesting. It’s the same as so many others of my generation. I grew up poor. Got old, got poorer. Ending up on the street when you’ve been on your way out the door your whole life isn’t surprising. It’s especially not surprising when everyone from your president to your guidance counselors tells you you’re not going anywhere else.

Like I said, not interesting. Far from unique. We never believed we were special snowflakes, but Human Rights didn’t seem like so much to ask for. I guess we were wrong. They were.

So here I am; last train outta’ the station on a one way ticket. Theoretically of course. Trains don’t run anymore. Even if they did, no-one could afford to ride ‘em. We’re all stuck in one place now. We’d walk, but hunger makes us weak. That’s the way they want us.

Soon enough the stray-dogs will be full. For a time anyhow. Then, they’ll starve too. Probably some will survive. They’ll eventually move back to the wild and start hunting again. I’d say football season was over, but the truth is, it was never on. We were too starved to play. Now, we’re just soon-to-be dust in the wind, or blood in the water, as my case goes.

I chose a tub. A full tub of hot water in a hotel-suite. Middle of the night break-ins aren’t expected anymore. I had something of the rogue in my blood, now the water has it. Might’ve been a big timer if the other rogues weren’t all dead before “my time.” Now I’ll be joining ‘em.

But I digress. Warm water’s nice. Plus, less clean-up involved. The coroner’ll just chuck my pruny-ass in a bag and write off the ticket. A few days later, they’ll fry me up in the big oven down the road. Maybe then I’ll finally get to fly, smoke in the sky. You know how they always told you to learn to soar? Dreams and such… like we ever had ‘em anyhow. Now, I’ll be one. At least… the water… is warm….

Bonus Poem: Black Mass

A mass,
held in black.
Crying mothers.
No turning back.

We’ve martyred criminals.
let thieves run wild.
filled powerful seats with animals,
that grow rich off betrayal.

Then, we riot and loot,
destroy our communities,
blame the jack-boot–
we’re only looking for opportunities.

There is no simple answer,
I’m afraid I must say.
It is a complex social problem.
Rome was not built in a day.

But we forget that.
Completely lose sight.
Melt our brains with propaganda,
that stokes the fire-fight.

Take a moment next time,
you think to light the fire,
or even fan its flames.
A thought is all I require,
for you to understand:
it is not child,
nor woman, nor man,
but the Human species at stake,
and it will soon come under ban–

from laws and threats of violence,
against love, expression, freedom–
the rights of every Human–
and I promise you’ll need ’em.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Fire-Rain

Fire rains beyond dirt-spattered glass,
a window into a hell we thought would never come to pass.
Instead with a toppling of governments to debt,
our only hope now is to one day forget.

Through columns of black-pluming orange and red,
is the electric rainbow of neon-pocked lead,
and down on the streets the fearless ones loot,
ever on look-out for a gun and blue suit.

What little Humanity yet still remains,
is swallowed by the chaos of fear and great pains,
as millions lie dead or else stubbornly defying,
their ticking clocks, their loved ones crying.

Somewhere deep in the middle of it all,
is a group of rich men getting richer off the fall,
but what will it matter once the last poor-men pass,
to be the one with piles of gold beneath the ass?

For civilization, society, economics,
are human endeavors requiring strong tonics,
of human sweat, blood, and labor,
and cannot exist if you are your only neighbor.

So remember, dear mister, it’s not only us,
you damage with your greed’s sadistic fuss,
but yourself and those you might love too,
for even the most hardhearted of hearts finds love anew.

Still that fire-rain does persist,
and I must wonder who it is you have missed,
or lost within that lead-pocked neon,
that has iced over your heart for such an eon.

But even if no answer I receive,
I’ll never do you the disrespect to deceive,
I’d rather resolutely just shake my head,
and hope you find it before you’re dead.

So that one day that fire-rain,
can break for sunshine, like happiness your pain,
and together you and I might meet ‘neath the glow,
of neon-lights with humanity to sow.

Bonus Poem: Ground State

I can feel electricity in the air.
It clings to surfaces as electrons to their shell.
While sweat glistens on the brow,
of the back-breaker with the stained blue-collar.

There are no more heroes anymore.
We left them behind with our youth and prosperity.
Tumult is our new currency, fear our inflation,
cold death and iron hate our tax.

I wanted green fields and plains full of wild flowers.
But all that’s left are concrete jungles and steel deserts.

What is this life we live?
Fading Earth and Sun with no Moon.
The birds don’t sing anymore and the plants have all died.
Their corpses are swarmed by flies while stale excrement taints the air.

Beneath it is the electricity that charges with each moment.
If you wait long enough you can feel it upend hairs on your neck,
and in the distance, a cry of mourning.

It was our dream to sow this land as explorers.
But our arrival was greeted with strange, old faces.
The dead had long been buried so we added to them,
and in the cool, night air, we waged warfare in virulent form.

A toxic nightmare became the reality of millions.

Wives.
Mothers.
Children.
Found death in the world’s cruel embrace

And so we danced and drank beneath the moonlight,
to forget our troubles and forgive us our sorrows.
But night is the time of the raven-call and the black-winged devils.

So we sang to forgive us our trespasses,
and to emerge once more into morning,
with hope and the calculus of reason,
whose ways disintegrate existence’s illusory nature,
to wed science with metaphysics and reveal our true path.

But fate is no more a sickness than a virtue.
Change is constant; quantum flux relentless.

And so we bow our heads in prayer,
that we might forget what we know to be true,
to carry on blissful, ignorant.

But electricity still clings to the air,
and excites.

It invigorates,
energizes,
cries out for discharge
so that it, like we, may return to ground-state.