Memories

Says the Chief

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.

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.

"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.