i conjure this necessity, razor-sharp, surging blood, with unmortgaged reason, no compromised beliefs or treaties of the heart, just commitment brewed to the maximum proof.
to the icons of corruption—of morality’s resonance dulled blunt—
tanglers of truth, incumbents of delusion draining the
stereophonic brainwaves we pray.
to the mire of humanity with toilets of gold
flushing the taste of excrement coated on twisted tongues,
roughshod riders from the haunts of Hades,
jugglers of mental dis-configuration.
to the gods of spite, dream-breakers, wielders of illusion, dreads of the mind,
creators of landmines, and all the freak-show heads
politicking Earth, wasting oxygen for viral misdirection.
to wolves dressed in shepherd’s raiment, criminals of salvation,
Pied Pipers on cable TV, nightmare weavers drilling
holes in our craniums to see if mass hysteria fits.
to the pickpockets of our souls,
con-junkies—Ponzi pushers, dice loaders,
bullshit artists, and men in three-piece suits
peddling counterfeit purity.
to all the gurus of superiority—manifestations of volcanic ash
smothering the land in particles of hate—
adulterers of cognition, zealots of complicit idolatry.
to each Midas of wealth and power
tearing pages from the rulebook of life, every two-bit hustler with
with a fantasy to sell, any broker of fabricated information.
to the tyrants of the world, and the supposed guardians of our souls,
merchants of war and death, traders of hope for fear,
exploiters of the weak and polluters of the public trust.
to ye royalty of division’s moat
yes, we’re drowning in your shit!
ye kings warring on chessboards, hiding behind your pawns
ye with the power to destroy us all.
I say in a language you can understand: fuck you!
kneeling on the cutting room floor, i gather snippets of time,
fragments of countless lives—tortured flickers
in celluloid, the confused coagulation of hearts and minds,
debris, no longer written into the script.
from scraps strewn haphazardly and trampled underfoot
a million odysseys untraveled—miles of Earth unread.
from Plymouth Rock to the Golden Gate, the empty gait
of invisible rhymes. My maker left me with a single dime
to place a futile call for help. It’s a suicide mission just to
stay alive.
from this hell-done-escaped from this well of wishes,
this den of crooks and leeches breeding
toxic fumes, solid waste, and enough hot air to resurrect
the Hindenburg, to Disneyland-goers offering lollipop balms for
those lacking sobriety—that brain-scrubbing numbness
come from Xanax bottles, chasing hasty gulps of rye.
through this kaleidoscope of lies, they say the sun won’t rise again.
so i acquire a set of night vision goggles, found on Google, of course;
got to keep my head above the rancid water, even if i drown.
over time, i’ve found a few minds like mine bubbling to the surface,
percolating resistance to the current
flowing through the power lines of society, generating
electricity to a sea of Tesla coils casting light in the
unswept corners left by the “custodians” of the human
race—those robots blind to its resilience.
i see the machinery of those seeking freedom
primed and ready for action.
through the maelstrom of life’s atrocities, in this storm of guile and vulgarity,
the breakers of backs, shredders of facts hack their way
toward some perfect mirage of a mad hatter’s charade,
but insanity’s just their ruse used to spin
the world off its axis. to the players, it’s just a game,
but for onlookers like us, it’s a railroad train headed for a
brick palisade.
the engineer accepts no blame.
‘twas a steel-screeching, air-raid siren serenade to the last dregs of pain,
but we’ve been down these tracks before,
so slam on the brakes, close the barn door, pull back the
curtain, and voila! you’ll find a one-trick pony.
don’t feed it!
