isn't it strange

isn't it strange
strangers can be fast friends
isn't it funny
circumstances change
the most bitter of foes
into trusted companions
pulling together
instead of apart
bonds that once held them as prisoners
are now bonds of the heart.

fringe

with a stinging slap on the back of the working class
touchscreen devices spit technobabble kicks in the ass
their digital feeds designed to quasi-feed the gray organic mass…

they say:
push back and brush aside the radical fringe mentality
embrace the crowd dont be so proud
just judge others' conformity
you win if you turn in the rebelling infectious minority…

but they'll:
they'll pick apart your words
they'll dissect your every thought
they'll extract your memories
they'll fill you with the Wine.

schematically diagramming the populace
blocks and boxes numerically in their place
programmed by nature
then rewritten as a race...

packed into stacking cubes stripped of individuality
every color reduced to brown-gray neutrality
fingerprints removed to fit the Grand Totality...

fliers

the mignight tattooed cackledaws ring a circle in the trees
crunching punchy songs with their gritty harmonies
puncturing the daylight air from dawn to dusk's decree…

flickering fliers swirling far above the earthen bounds
brown and white and yellow as their lonely siren sounds
black and scarlet bretheren scurry 'cross the grassy grounds…

as metal shiny aeroliners highly fly their radar routes
feathered fliers wander in and over the wash of blues
each of them is playing out a vicarious point of view...


trumpeted

when the winds wrapped tightly around his legs
like long cat tails whipping angry and wet
he could feel the breath of death
hot on the back of his neck.

that quiet whisper
that filled his head
wouldnt soon settle quietly
on the ears of the dead
it would become the battlecry
of the siren's in the ocean deep
and trumpeted from
all the highest mountaintops
instead…

he would find no peace hidden in dim seclusion
on isle, in cave
or perched on precipice high,
he would glean no heat from the roaring fire
no warmth from the dancing flame
just a cold flat flickering light.

returning to the place he once knew
crossing spring fields
walking along the city's edge
his heart beat as loudly as the grass grew…

his memories filled the empty sidewalks
with happy faces
and happy afternoons
his mind painted the tall buildings so high
and the storefronts bright
like they were once before
like they used to be
like it was when the sky was clear
and the air wasnt full of disease.

but even the fondest memories start to crack
after too much turning around
and too much looking back
the time eventually comes when
you have to take a deep breath
and pack them away

his path was clear
but his vision blurred
the road was well marked
but his emotions tripped each step,
a day's journey turned into an eternity
and as it passed through his life
it filled the last years of his days
with struggle, sadness, and desperation
until one day...

casual eye

if i ever thought this was the way to heaven
i mustve been outta my mind
i should turn around and head back
the way i came

but something inside keeps telling me to push on
even though i keep shooting widely
with my eyes closed tightly
and mighty unsure of my aim

pitfalls and pitchforks
line this twisting roadway
potholes and hairpin turns
grip the wheel as the tires burn
look at me youd think id learn

im not as bright as you give me credit for
but then again im not a knucklehead either
ill surprise you if you give me the chance
dont expect too little
dont expect too much
but im a wallflower on a mission
and youll have to ask me to dance

it might all seem pretty crazy to you
an insider looking into my little world
just back away a little and look in again
the closer you are
the worse things appear
distance is my camouflage

youll see im pretty far away from myself too
it should be fairly clear to the casual eye
dont hold me when i want to run
dont push me when im standing still
im not a rocket scientist
im not a brain surgeon here
im not a complicated guy

to the casual eye
im not a complicated guy

tome

a hard-bound tome of tempting tales

clapped tight anxiously awaits wide open eyes,

parchment pages ache to turn with a touch

within the bindings bring unknown fates

laughter, song, tears.

like so many others on wooden dusty shelves

forgotten, hiding in plain sight, fighting dim light

and the casual glance as a browser passes by,

the struggle continues, days turn to night

no interested reader nears.

ahh to dream

to be stuffed into a ratty knapsack

or sent to a childhood friend

to be passed along to a son or neice

ahh to dream.

autumn collectors move in and out

leaves rattle along the sidewalk

the patter of cold rain on canopy canvas

wooden floorboards creak close

then an unfamiliar sound

the crackle of long-unopened pages

a sigh, a smile

the crisp and jingle at the counter

the joy of being found

the joy of being wanted

the joy of going home.

attack

this is another attack
another way to diminish--
another way to seclude
another way to intrude
another start to finish

this is another attack
a simple complication--
a simple symbolic gesture
a simple cyclonic censure
an overnight cessation

so close your eyes
it's too close to disguise...
back away from the scene
it's all a part of the scheme
it falls apart at the seams…

doncha turn your back on this attack
even though it might look like just another hack
you never know how much punch it might pack
until it's complete

doncha turn and run until you think it's done
it'll bite and fight you til the black conclusion
systemwide failure custom tailored
to bring you to your knees

wind plays

the leaves have all blown away
in the autumn wind
skinny bare gray branches will break –
under the weightof the heavy snow
almost as heavy as her sigh...


and the wind plays with her hair


sitting cold on the old stone bench
with her thoughts
trying to compromise –
how to choose
without making a choice
is the hardest choice of all...


and the wind plays with her hair


her feet are bricks as she trudges home
but home is not really home
it's just another place to be alone –
passing a bright open cafe door
laughter warm and cookies
her shoulders are bricks now too...


and the wind plays with her hair

evidence

living or dying
is hardly a choice
it's a decision
to die as a result
or live with the consequences

comparing the world i see
to the world that appears to me
on the other side of the fence

is like wrestling with invisible foes
but it's a struggle nonetheless

makes my eyes ache
and my muscles tense
digging for clues to the unknown
searching for camouflaged evidence

so cunning in it's disguise
hidden in plain view
looking like everything else around it
bathed in a baby's innocence

sleep

curl up with a good book
at the end of a day
dont forget to close the curtains
turn out the light
oh to sleep the sleep of the dead
just try to have a dreamless night
just try

masses of faceless robots stare at me
through the wind
their metal oily greasy fingers grabbing
at my skin
lost in empty houses where i swear
ive never been

spirits curve around my brain
and freeze me
voices from way back when
just tease me

no longer are my dreams an escape
theyre just a new slippery slope
to the dark side of my brain

coming down on the other side
of the med
its the catalyst of the melee
in my head
a love hate relationship
when im in rem

but it does color
my subliminal state
without it i would be
swimming in ashen gray
im a slave to the benefits
i dont want to escape

i live on a slippery slope
to the dark side of my brain

cast away

without control exists chaos
and chaotic existence kills life

disagreeing with the masses
or not following the leader's lead
temporarily creates diversion
camouflages internal need

casting away individuality
is not clamping on the chains
identifing loss of indemnity
hides eternal flames

and creating existence
to extinguish it
and building just to raze
sequesters juried evidence
blocks the light
creates more night
and less days

without control exists chaos
and chaotic existence kills life