Peaches

I am sorry that I ate your peach,
that soft skin,
pale mosit fruit,
could not turn me down.
I am sorry that I drank your milk,
the rich cream and cool taste,
lay above,
that sweet
rich
peach.

White Powah?

Funny i fear this makes me look racist.


I get it you know,
born in burbs,
white as the clouds,
and rich as fuck right?
So you took away my voice,
made me a prisoner,
of my own conditions,
so that i can't fight
for what i see as right
because i don't go hungry
and i'm not in agony
no one will believe
the words that i pray
because of my parents
because of my house
because of a car
i don't even drive.
I want to save the world
but you keep telling me i already raped it
and i want to save a life
but you keep telling me just to tape it
these reality tv news
needs to go
these racist clowns
with white faces
and hearts
need to go
i'm so sick of being unforgivable
only because i haven't sinned
if i sell my house?
if i sell my computer?
if i sell my life, to live in a box,
to fail out of school
to get hooked on drugs
that i'd never think of
then
then i can fight
then i can be right
but untill then
i'll scream at a wall,
and scare not a mouse.

11/4/08

Two years.
Two years and it comes to this.
To one day,
To one vote.
Two choices,
Two dreams?
To a future full of wonder,
To plans not yet built
The change
we
need?
The hope
we
need?
Let me toss the coin,
Decide 4 years
on 2 years
Let me close my eyes
and mark my line,
I can see no end
But I dream, that these ,
Two years,
led to

Modern art is stolen from a first grader.

A painting robbed of its innocence to be given motivation and reason. Raped of the singular joy it had, to be hung on a white wall. As a slow chorus sweeps by to find praise for nothing. Whispers of doubt are blocked by a laser fence. It is a rebellion against itself, and as one man once said, a house divided cannot stand. This art has been propped up on the lies of a hope. A hope that was created when beauty and truth was doubted. In the end of a world scenario none of this matters. In an end of the world scenario everything is fear. In the end of the world scenario art will be the only comfort and in the end I don't want a urinal.


Shart?--
Art is nothing.
It adds nothing.
It gives nothing.
It takes everything.
Artists are frauds.
They tell lies
to convince beauties
that the world is a lie.

Iced Tea--
This ship has hit an iceberg.
Sirens have sung to break a sharp silence.
Ships have been dropped,
to see people jump after.
The captain has a revolver
With only 5 bullets left
This ship has hit an iceberg,
not big enough to cool my drink.

--
I am a lie.
I am hope erupted
Spilled across a canvas
To dry to an eggshell white.

Is it far enough?--
You are love.
You are hope.
You are a gift.
But I am lost.
You are no search light in a storm.
I am a sea with no ships.
You are wish.
Left in a Dream.
That began in a Coma.

Terrorism is a Symptom

Imagine a world where you have no hopes.  An unresponsive government, no education, no money only a religion.  The rage can only build.  Days go by and with no forward movement you slowly dig a hole.  The deeper you got he angrier you get.  Then one day a man comes by and directs your digging.  Tells you where the problem lies, and because you never were educated you believe him.  He seems smart, knowledgeable about the world, and best yet he gives you a hope.  He points to the mountains and shows golden palaces, where men live and love freely.  He tells you how they've raped your land, and try to make your choices.  He goes as far to say that they mock your religion, the one thing that empowers you, the one love you've had.  Deep down in this hole the light won't reach you, and the brooding only continues.  Back comes the wise man, back with the plans he told you about.  There is a solution to the imbalance.  A solution that will leave you a hero, grant you paradise and give your loved ones a new choice.  He hands you a gun, a bomb, a death wish, and tells you to go to war.  You march happily to deaths embrace dieing with a smile on, finding hope in your hole.
Up on the hill, surrounded by fear life begins to shake.  You do the only thing understandable and declare war on the hole.  They've killed your friends because of your way of life so you must defend yourself.  You cut off their money, demand they let you into their lands and mock their religion.  More people die.

Terrorism is a symptom to a disease.  The disease is poverty.  The disease is no government.  The disease is not religion.  And invading countries can't solve any of this.  Help the people.  Give them freedom.  Show them a good side.  And good will follow.

The Machine

This machine has a propensity for self annihilation.
Built on the precipice of civilization.
A delicate balancing act, always shifting in the wind,
The 19th century saw the growth of weights as pressure mounted
thousands fought thousands for the survival of a handful.
The 20th century left the balance slipping,
weapons never seen blinded the world.
The 21st century seems to spell doom.
As the scales bend and break under new pressures,
man vs nature,
nation vs self,
leader vs follower.

This machine has a propensity for beauty,
    hidden in its gears.
A world unknown, pressured by war, but protected from death.
No machine has brought more joy while killing so much.
This machine has a propensity to give up.

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Post Modern Enlightened

I've been stuck in a post-modern theorist ennui.
A world with anything that required nothing,
no motivating forces to push,
no love to fight for,
whats a rebellion against nothing?
whats a fight against the air?
Have I only been a fighter so I could fight
These lost feelings of a bygone age,
an age of pain and suffering,
where the elite can hope for something better.
Still theres violence across the world,
An invasion of Georgia that doesn't approach Atlanta
Millions dead in Africa,
Hundreds punshied in the Middle East
Revolutions that need to be over turned



The revolution will not happen,
there will be no televised violence,
no picket lines erupting,
deaths in the street will be minimal.
There will be a whimpering,
as the working class gets fatter,
the upper class richer,
and the middle class stops caring.
With so many problems,
so many options,
where does one begin?
To fix the middle east,
to end unemployment,
the death of the enviroment.
Karl Marx never saw union bosses,
colluding with corporate warlords.
Keynes never saw governments,
being led by idol winners.


Death is the prettiest part of life,
not in the dark gothic light.
Death is a promise of change.
A promise that no tyrant is immortal
was the most beautiful of gifts.
It means that everything is transient,
And puts a period at the end.
Gives a reason to fight,
even a reason to die.
Death gives life meaning.