Only one more today...this looks like a community of people whose opinions about which I may actually give a shit, so if you read and you think it sucks or it doesn't or whatever, please comment accordingly... @ello
who used to be little boys,
racing their cars and drinking cheap beers,
with stories no momma wants to hear.
Gazes that go vacant
and questions left unanswered
or mumbled generalities,
the scuffing of a toe on the sidewalk,
hands shoved in jean pockets.
Where did we go wrong
that we kill the innocence as we send them
to kill the innocents?
over ownership of a thing none of us ever really owned
in the first place.
We rape the earth,
rape our soldiers,
pulling the souls of both through the tanks of our cars
and blowing their dead fumes out into our filthy air.
Dirty, stinking, ridiculous war
lost our children,
your sons and daughters,
while oil pumped by the gallon into our oceans
and we scrambled to save everything it touched.
We acknowledge its inherent deadliness
but loathe to admit
the vast scope of its poison.
like the first glow of amber before sunrise,
we see people rising up,
hairy faces and sandaled feet,
throwing down the gauntlet on corporate bullshit.
Banging away on drums,
writing, letting words flow as if their very lives depend on it
(and let me tell you...they do, man, they do),
helping, lifting, sharing,
reteaching one another that this life is about love,
not stuff, shit to fill your houses and your time,
but people...and plants...and earth, and chalk sketches on a brick wall,
skinny words put to a fat beat,
just to make you smile
or open your mind to modern-day enlightenment.
Those of us,
we reject this world that has been fed to us
by cable television and bought-out media.
We turn off our televisions, turn off our lights,
and head outside to meet our fates,
on the worn paths of mountains,
on dirty city sidewalks where we
sit on stoops and porches and
talk with friends until the words cease and then we listen,
to the heartbeat of the globe,
pulsing beneath our skin, beneath our toes.
Don't disturb us, man,
cause you won't like what you hear.
When you open your standard-issue ears
and they are torn like paper
with the realities
of what is.
You think you're slick in your Dolce & Gabbana,
spun by child's hands
and sold to you in the vomit of fashion's bulimia.
Where is your heart?
To whom do you turn when the seal is broken
and you start to see the world for
One day you'll turn to us,
the freaks, the geeks, the outsiders,
saying, “Wise ones, teach us, for our
oil is gone,
supermarkets are empty,
wallets are empty,
friends are gone...
oh what shall we do?”
And we'll give you a packet of seeds,
an empty notebook, a trail map to the nearest mountain,
and a hug,
and bid you