Posts Tagged ‘free speech’

Somewhere…
Someone is hurting somebody
While saying,
Just doing my job
& no one is helping
Because it’s not their job
& millions are afraid to speak of it,
For they may lose their jobs
So it is,
We’ve sold our souls in silence
A system of servile compliance
Dim embers, still they burn
Fire with the potential to be
Conflagration on the plantations of economic slavery
Fuck it…
I’ll bite the first bullet and lead
Just need to know,
Who will stand up after they take me?

 

 

©2012 zenspeak9 publications un/incorporated

http://zenspeaknine.com/

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.

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

A Promised Land

Posted: May 4, 2013 in Poetry
Tags: ,

Gasping, wincing; clutched chests
In a bathtub coffin
Laid to rest
White as porcelain
Pharmacopia-synagouge
Prayers unanswered
By disguised corporate gods
Down here
All are quiet
Down here
We await sentence
Trying
To give back the silver
Crying
While repeating repentance
Over and over
Crimson and clover
My brother
To think of you now
Consumed in the dirt
The clay of the earth
Supporting desecrated ground
Body burnt
Ashes scattered
A channel with no sound
Sparks for our pyre
Temper skill
In the funeral fire
Sacred magic of forgotten tomes
The snakes handled
To empty a tomb
For a new one to fill
We all participate
In the soft kill
Slumber in reverie
But the levee breaks soon
Whatever you heard
This is no return
Going quietly with the slow burn
Back from the dead
But not to save them
Here to save you
Collecting truth
Waiting for a turn
To unleash these lies learned
Esoteric verses gather us
Resurrect us like Lazarus
20:22 Leviticus
We’re here for the land promised us
Someone forgot to mention this
While there’s still time
Erase lines devised
To conquer and divide
Guess who’s picking the sides
An operation no longer clandestine
Taking
Everything
Changing
Memory
Remember me; remember you
Before our hands had been tied
For how we’ll be remembered
Will be how we chose to die
Promises masking lies
Never materialize
Mesmerized as if hypnotized
Staring at our scars
One day they’ll realize
These tracks will trace
Our path to the stars
Before we’re done
How amazing
The novelty honesty has become

So what do you want to do with your life?

When people ask this, it’s not for a vague idealistic answer like, I want to help the poor, the sick, the kids, or anything of that sort. They want to know what you plan on doing for money in order to survive. The socially acceptable answer is not supposed to be one that is worse than the state you are currently surviving in. Nothing like a drug addict or a bum will suffice. This is a question that begs an answer of grandiose proportion. President, astronaut, firefighter, are all safe and standard answers.

I had the terrible misfortune of being burdened with an unfortunate affliction that bordered on becoming a curse in a world dictated by material wealth.

When I was asked what I wanted to do with my life, I would respond with great dignity that I wanted to write. When you tell someone you want to be a writer, successful novelists like King or Koontz probably pop into his/her mind. I suppose that was the standard that I too was trying to achieve when I still thought like a child. Few people really think about what it takes to become a writer until it knocks them on their ass a couple of times. You do hear a story or two about overnight success every now and again. Some lady, somewhere –while washing laundry perhaps– has an epiphany. Somehow she whips from reverie an idea for a trilogy of novels. She suddenly decides to try her hand at writing books. She then has the inconceivable serendipity of publishing her book to coincide with the empty production schedule of a major Hollywood studio that is looking to produce a film with the same type of theme as the book this lady just finished. But stories like this are few.

The life of a writer is a tortured one, accompanied by poverty for many of us. We don’t write to make Oprah’s book of the month. We write because it gives us a purpose beyond slaving at a menial position in order to barely get by. We write because it is the only hope we have left to escape this trap. We write because it makes us feel different. It makes us feel like we know some secret that others don’t. We write because the alternative is inconceivable.

We write because we have to.

Human beings deserve so much more than working their whole lives away just to make other people rich. The industrial age has somehow managed to redefine the parameters of slavery. Slave owners of old were responsible for the welfare of their slaves. They had to clothe them. Feed them. Make sure they were healthy enough to work. The slave owners have now switched their titles to corporate heads and bankers. This is the new age of aristocracy. Sustained by sweat shops and factories. Not much has changed since the emancipation except that the slaves now have to take care of themselves. This still benefits the ruling class because they own everything that people have to provide for their families. They pay the proletariat as little as possible and orchestrate a system that perpetually promotes products the workers can’t afford, nor can they live without. So begins the credit debacle. This shackles people with debt. They can’t gamble on things like their dreams anymore.

The media dangles celebrities before us to give us a false sense of hope. We worship star athletes, for when we see them run we see freedom.  Success has convoluted the entire thought process. If our art doesn’t make millions of dollars in revenue then it is not worth expressing and should be abandoned. We can no longer afford to buy into this thinking. We are losing our most original voices in the liberal arts. They are being traded for a repetitive drone that is being mass manufactured and distributed globally.

You are beautiful because you are different; not because you are the same. Don’t ever let anyone convince you that what you have to say isn’t important. The hell with the mainstream. Everyone deserves a space in this world to claim for their self. But hey, I’ve often been accused of being an unrealistic idealist.

Writing is by the individual, for the individual. At least it should be. The metaphysical nature of writing exists to expose the profoundness of being that is found in the world around us. Writing is art. Art is the manipulation of associative symbols that reflect how we interpret the world around us. The first artistic endeavors of the human species concentrated on presentating these symbols in the most primal forms. All of this has little to do with financial success. Do not let money dictate your divine nature. Think of all the great artists that died poor. Think of the great loss the world would’ve suffered if they’d just given up.

Get back to your roots. Live your life for you. And hey, if you wind up living in a cardboard box, at least you were an original spirit as the divine energy intended you to be. I’ll live my life standing for what I believe before I’ll spend the entirety of my existence crawling on my knees for the scraps left by whatever powers may be.

And if people don’t like it; well, at least I will be me instead of pretending to be them.

“The Art we look at is made by only a select few. A small group create, promote, purchase, exhibit and decide the success of Art. Only a few hundred people in the world have any real say. When you go to an Art gallery you are simply a tourist looking at the trophy cabinet of a few millionaires…”  – Banksy

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