When words are violence
(and violence is speech)
and speech is dangerous
then we have been muted
without a single touch
of finger to trigger
When words are violence
(and violence is speech)
and speech is dangerous
then we have been muted
without a single touch
of finger to trigger
My silence
isn’t an absentee ballot,
or forgotten process.
I’ve been living elsewhere.
I’ve been f’ing deep in my own shit.
Life has sapped some of
what passes for passion.
But I’m chilling, presently.
All things being equal,
it’s all A-Okay!
Lol.
No.
But still,
I’m here
…ish.
Ready, now
the vultures are here,
and we want them…
They’ll show us
the worst
of ourselves,
in HD.
Someone’s someone
lies under a tarp
and we pretend at decorum
while diving in.
I’m eating dinner.
A helicopter hovers
over a cold child.
Thursday.
Sorrowful temerities…
Solace has been my shelter.
Some have soldiered on…
I’m not one of them.
I’m still in hiding.
Seek me out
with warning.
Buried in the truth
are the details
of its undoing.
Oh you sad misguided sacks of shit
If you should ever get what you want
I hope you get what I wish
Probability says anything
can be accounted for…
anything.
I’ve drifted through enough decades
to smell
(from a distance)
bullshit.
The worst ideas
have been given
a fresh start
underneath the tutelage
of a waiting adversary.
We let this poison
be made ready.
(We set it against ourselves,
and sheltered it.)
Now we find
the incipient growth
has become a force
beyond our initial fears…
outside our previous bounds.
We must retrace our steps,
rediscover what we thought
of our former selves.
These are our flaws,
honestly earned,
from our misdeeds.
Pick your pillow.
Now we all lie.
I guess the worst of it
is the betrayal
of things once held
dear.
Now I surrender ideals
like a 19th century
baloonist.
Things that were once
so special,
now chucked to the side…
forgotten.
It’s my jetsam.
I’ll bear witness,
to my own failings,
thank you.
Now I navigate
with nothing more
than the arc described
by my discarded ideals…
I can see the path
my failures have described.
I cannot complain.
But
I will.
Are we to be
surprised
that
“The temporary”
has lingered enough,
to become
the routine?
This is what we desired,
brought to us
beautifully plated
and prepared,
now we must feast.
We must eat out our hearts
and profess some loyalty,
or risk revealing
a distinct lack
of fealty.
I have grown weary of this
and seek an end
to my banal musings…
still….
I can’t complain,
we’re all AFK,
as far as I can tell:
No longer engaged,
distracted by desire,
compelled to complacency…
equally fucked
and fucking equal.
What up bitches?
I hit them switches,
bounce up-and-down
(and into ditches).
Your pants are sagging
pull up them britches,
get in the sandwich,
make me a kitchen,
(just broke my rhyme)
why aint you listenin’?