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Lies, Deceit, Shame in defeat
Trading lives for moments of glory
One by one the morals diminish
Eating themselves alive
Intimidated by the impending doom.
The human race is left with
Only pieces of its broken word and
The horrors that penetrated the useless defenses
Because nobody was valiant enough to
Believe in the darkness, in the cold […]
→ 1 CommentTags: Poetry · Collapse · Society
Once a week, Quinn walks up the hill to visit Arbelia. He brings her chocolate bars and inquiries. Quinn is 25 years old. Born in a big room in a small town, brought round the states, ‘sbeen soaking it up and wringing it out. Arbelia is 80 years old. A poet, shaman, songwriter, biker, gardener, mother and grandmother, she has been incarcerated for 25 years. Quinn has been learning to sail. Arbelia has been painting landscapes.
It has occurred to me that I might be able to get in there as an outsider and unify and belong but to not stop belonging to anything, everything and nothing.
They were introduced by a mutual friend and have been visiting for a year and a half or so. They have created a cushion of mutual respect. A true place to start to speak from. They’ve been calling it traveling. With work and play and wordplay long the way. So once a week, Quinn heads down to the prison for a brief and precious visitation and he and Arbelia hit the road together.
→ No CommentsTags: Fiction · Experimental · Religion · Spirituality
Rusted globs roll boorishly from the roof,
collect,
glimmer,
and fall seven flights
to pulse squandered rhythm onto the alley.
But oh, to know it young
like a Beat ideal.
To speak in the loosened voice
of nowhere glances.
To say,
“Typhoon
with nothing short of screams for all this beautiful young life
that drowns in cirrhosis like cheap wine.” […]
→ No CommentsTags: Poetry · Beat · Experimental
In the U.S.A., we ignore our reflection on the TV screen while we grit thirty minutes of sound bites each night,
Scraps of stories served between drug ads from a buffet of Rx’s to help us
EAT SLEEP SHIT PISS […]
→ No CommentsTags: Poetry · Antiwar
Taking a swig of rum, Don revels in technological triumph. He calls it the Eagle’s Nest. Outfitted with state-of-the-art surveillance technology, from this central location he’s able to monitor every nook and cranny of his coveted 10,000 square feet and surrounding 200 acres. He had dropped a cool $500,000 on a high-end Knight Security system – complete with biometric checkpoints (iris, voice, thumbprint scanning), pressure mats, driveway and seismic sensors, wireless night-vision cameras, window screens that scream when cut, and a dozen[…]
→ 1 CommentTags: Fiction · 1984