Monday, February 23, 2009

Bad Medicine

Gun pointed between your eyes;
Masked man with metal power;
Bad medicine, nefarious intent.

Like wasps in fiery defense,
Police swarm, yet no arrests;
The getaway car, long gone.

Months later, suspects on the bench,
Judged guilty, shackled and sent,
To a place where taxes pay rent.

Gangland, government sanctioned,
Where the bible is the money book;
Judges prejudiced by bribes, selling lies.

A congress of squabbling cronies,
A house of fortunes, ill spent,
Curators of disease, in the capital sense.

Egos fighting for their insatiable id,
Raining arrows of destruction,
On those misunderstood.

War, it seems, is inevitable,
When death is the only truth;
Still, hope for change, a brighter day.

In dire times, have faith;
When human justice fails,
Mother Nature runs her course.

Saturday, February 21, 2009

The Spider. Etching from woodcut.

The Goliath

The Paradox

It seems the only truth is conflict.
Conflict between truth and untruth,
Between good and evil, conscious,
Subconscious. Winning and losing,
Why try? It’s all a paradox.

Is it worth it, to make one’s self?
After all, we all will die, yet, perhaps,
We live on. Catholics give bread,
At least more often than anti-Gods.

Does happiness breed happiness,
Or simply procreate distress?
Impossibility seems quite possible,
If one speaks such words as peace.
Indeed, peace might still need war,
As death must conquer life.

Or else it overwhelms, chokes off,
Any chance of living free,
Thinking one’s own thoughts,
Of how it all came to be.

Yet nihilism seems too vain,
We all exist together, regardless
If we exist at all. Shouldn’t we,
If we is not, as it could arguably be,
An imaginary part of me,
Join together, and conquer war,
Create a freedom, if not real,
At least fully perceived?

Marquis de Sade would fully agree,
As he holds the whip, his devil’s tree,
Freedom corrupting the free,
Harvesting the planted seeds.
Is that what freedom comes to be?

Then certainly, a Dao, a way,
A path with heart, there must be.
But to freedom this could lead.

We end up where we started,
Regardless of right and wrong.
The sun will swallow the earth,
Still, we might escape,
And start anew.

I wish for this,
I wish for you.

Monday, February 16, 2009

"तित्तिएस गोत्ता स्कुईज़े ठेम्सेल्वेस"

Chicken strut slut
Walkin down the street
In the snow with bare feet.

“Titties gotta squeeze themselves!”
Says the man on PCP,
Stark naked, raving mad,
Handcuffed by police.

In the ghetto, shattered glass,
In the slums, sewage and ash.
Up on a winding overpass,
Luxury cars drive by real fast.

In one of them,
A black Mercedes Benz,
Cocaine and champagne,
Sex, money, lack of friends.

A window opens,
A bottle thrown out,
And it’s picked up in the gutter,
To exchange for just five cents.

That’s how he feeds his family,
That’s how he pays rent;

Hoping one day,
From a car up above,
A wad of cash will come falling,
Tumbling into his hands, like love.

Little does he know,
His angel dove will stay a dream,
A false reality, a scheme;
Gunshot rings out,
Blood runs down the street.

That’s all she wrote,
For titties who squeeze themselves.

The Odyssey

I went to ask the oracle,
Far across the water,
For a drop of fire.

The journey was long,
The waves quite tall,
The sun, shadowed.

Three masts sky high,
Full sails unfurled,
The ship pulled the wind.

Then came a hurricane,
Clash of vessel on jagged rock,
The sea, lightning and rain.

Save from drowning fast,
Water rushing, gushing in,
Man overboard, broken mast.

Sailing ship sunken,
Swimming into the sea,
Deep and cerulean-green.

Blood-red and shrill
Rose the morning sun,
Adrift across the water.

Sharks circling underneath,
Black eyes and razor-teeth;
Clutch what once was tree.

Floating on the surface,
Looking deep beneath,
Alone, aware, and unafraid.

For ten and seven days,
Saw not land, man, or bird,
Lost somewhere unknown.

On the dawn of ten and eight,
Awoke, did he, upon a beach,
Firm ground under his feet!

Fruit and fish in plenty to eat,
Virgin forests of ancient trees,
A new ship, he would need.

With an axe of sticks and stones,
Quite quickly, it was built,
Seaworthy, tried and true.

Watching the crimson sunset,
Facing the endless sea,
Tomorrow, he would leave.

Poseidon’s rage relinquished
By the sacrifice of island lamb,
The fisherman’s son set sail again.

East, into the rising sun,
Full hull of grapes and meat,
Ready for anything, even defeat.

Now twenty days on,
At peace with sky and sea,
Who and he have realized Me.

The oracle, I feel, has died,
Still, sail on do I,
For I have found myself.

When I get to where I’m going,
Eyes closed, heart stopped,
I won’t need fire anyways.

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

थे कॉल में क्रेजी तूर्ण

Dogs roaming, cats creeping;

Full moon overhead.

Guitar strung around his back,

Dirty, shaggy hair.

The train whistle

Echoes through the air,

He jumps off a boxcar,

No worries, no cares.

No name anymore,

Just two eyes and a song,

A story of sorrow,

Stone heart made strong

Now it won’t be long,

Til up the sun rise,

Still no sleep

For those wrinkled eyes.

He dreams when he’s awake,

Wanders in the night,

And sings about the shadows,

The cold, blue light.

Gotta have three eyes to see him,

Two more to catch his stare,

Rough boots walkin free,

No home not here or there.

A long time ago,

They say he killed a man,

Know no one really knows,

They just leave him all alone.

They call him Crazy Turn,

The Ghost, the Unknown.

There he is, walkin down the road.