Archive for May, 2013

 

To reintegrate now

Such a damaged soul

Seeds of great folly

For these patterns

Fallen upon us

Are what we learn

Honorary-first-degree-burn

From the university

Of self-imposed suffering

What we love,

Can we harvest?

Irrigated by tears?

Merely cultivated by inspiration?

Harkened by a time

Distant; yet, relevant

As a far away land

Where lapping waves

Wash dirt from the sands

Pulling grit back

To its watery grave

For these patterns

We know & fear

What dark seas bring forth

Craving serenity

In impatient turns

We support levees

Reinforce gates

Construct high fences

Forgiving transgressions

Forgetting offences

In limbo

We walk on

My entire life is measured by blank sheets of paper

I prove my existence with a piece of paper

The judges summon me with a piece of paper

I announce my love with a piece of paper

I sell my words on a piece of paper

My life’s worth is counted in pieces of paper

I wipe my ass with their toilet paper

http://zenspeaknine.com/

Free speech is what it is and what it always should be but I/m not sure how much longer I can keep it up because the man is right outside my door and no I’m not paranoid for I can hear him traversing electromagnetically through my wireless and buzzing my wires that there will soon be a world war three but I/m afraid we won/t be the good guys in this one so what do you say about letting off the pedal for a moment and taking a look in the mirror in order to makeover our image before crashing us back on the world scene and I/m telling this guy here at work how hard it is to make it on the art scene and he tells me I need to learn how to dance and lip sync.

Those are some strong words Pootie-Tang.

I never thought about that.

What It Is

Posted: May 27, 2013 in Poetry, Prose, Uncategorized
Tags: ,

I don’t know about you, but I just want to write. I don’t care about being the best or being better than any other writer out there. I only care that my art is as different as it can possibly be.

Things have changed since I started selling and promoting my work.

Talk about being buried alive behind enemy lines.

I remember the principal telling my mom, he is just disruptive to the system.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a kinder critique.

It is easier to follow a system. It is difficult to not lose your self in its midst.

I want people to recognize my work upon sight. I don’t mean merely by content; I mean visually. I am not a writer. I am an artist that writes.

God damn…

I feel like a cat with a silly owner that keeps putting me in stupid Christmas sweaters. I can’t run away because the sweater is too tight. I walk away like my legs are tied to planks. I shake my legs to attempt an escape from the sweater. Meanwhile, everyone is laughing at me and taking pictures.

All I’m saying is let me be a cat.

After getting the old,

You’re a really good writer. It’s just, your stuff is too dark. When are you going to write something happy?

for the millionth time, I decided to address this preoccupation with sadness.

I never had the words to articulate what I was trying to do as an artist, until I ran across an Aldous Huxley interview on YouTube. He was talking about how a person psychologically broken-down is in their most vulnerable state of suggestion and could therefore be more susceptible to having a new paradigm placed into their head.

Wow. Some inception shit.

So this got me thinking about drug addicts.

Stuff like:

How people fall so hard into AA/NA (good or bad).

Addicts that reintegrate back into society are doomed to some type of medical/psychological treatment for the rest of their lives.

The system is failing them. Rehabs and prisons are profiting from their agendas.

They are being given a false paradigm.

I stand at the bottom of this dark pit for a reason.

When my people hit the ground, the first face I want them to see is a friendly one.

Ya/ follow me?

Awareness of past stupidity motivates change, but mind the cost of forsaking the future.

There is little wisdom found in losing sight of what is ahead of you, because you can not stop looking behind you.

Talk to salt about looking back.

For everyone that cannot accept this:

     lashing with apologies.

I left Sodom and Gomorrah a long time ago.

I am not looking back.

 

http://zenspeaknine.com

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/deadBEATpoetry

It is not, what it is

You’ll never change what it is

If we did what it is we want/

Bet these guys would stop touching kids

This world makes you feel crazy

Like you’re the only one seeing this

There’s a homeless man down the street

He got no insurance; he’s real sick

Whistling while we walk by

Oughta/ give him a roundhouse kick

& it’s only getting colder

Even though the ice is getting thin

Live a life but are we living?

Heart atrophy & we’re all in

Bought the fear; just hoping for change

We all know something needs to flip

As the story/s getting older

Anticipate apocalypse

I will be what I am

No one person owns

A fail-safe identity

Write on that tape

Over your mouth

Continue to laugh

Till the truth comes out

Can keep riding this bus

But it ain’t changing its route

Don’t play a part

We never were any more

©2012 (zenspeak9 publications un/incorporated)

http://zenspeaknine.com/

sketch by Eric David Lough

Put on your best and head

To the new church

Of the Paradigm Saints

Embrace this pain

Because the truth it hurts

And may God bless the T.V.

How ever would we see what was happening,

if we didn’t get it intravenously?

But we can only do so much vicariously

Feel the pulse of the streets

A disease spreading

Something darker

More consuming

Than even poverty

Of more value

Than mere wage slavery

Come off your knees

Survey the scene

Before it’s too late

There’s miracles to consummate

Forget the new speech of old newspeak

Hope and change that no one believes

Rigor mortis of humanity is setting

Take time out to look in

Went from night to day to memory

And every bloody Sunday

To a ghost haunting in small doses

An hour here

A summer there

Been no bed of roses

Drawing dreams like a last breath

Sewing torn seams

Is all we got

We know who you are out there struggling.

We saw your front teeth get kicked in, your swollen jaw, your blackened eyes. We watched you get drug across a street by your hair. We know how embarrassed you feel every time you hold up a checkout counter because the cashier has to check your WIC card or your EBT card will not swipe. We hear the snide remarks from the line behind you. We know it’s difficult to find the right guy, when most the “right” guys won’t date a girl with kids. We know how rare it is to find a job that’ll work with your schedule. We know how hard you worked and hustled to make sure we had something nice for Christmas.

We were there.

We went through it all with you.

And who are we?

We are the children of the forgotten families of America.

And when we get our turn at power, we will not forget a thing of that.

We love and appreciate you all so much.

Happy Mothers Day!

For if I change,who here will change their opinion of me?

A changing state’s most difficult aspect.
An aspect sitting heavily upon my chest.
Forcing the shallowest breaths.
Weighing down every decision.

Cut to bone with surgical precision.
The further this blade continues to sink,
to ease the pain I like to think,
it can never measure against the sadness, the broken promises amid the madness,
I spread through my bruised world.

The guilt from which leaves one unfurled.

One way or another, before we’re through;

WE ALL WITH BLOOD PAY OUR DUES.