Sunday, April 29, 2007

The Driftwood Men

And they swam and drug their battered bodies upon the sun-drenched shore
Pieces of driftwood drifting into and out of high tides and low tides
But breaking on the rocks they looked up asking for some semblance of an answer
And on those rocks stood saints so dry, balancing baskets of fish
Casting one after the other and with them a wish for the waves to break no closer
And to taste that meat, that fish, the driftwood men licked cracked lips with dry tongues
But no, the saints were not to be bothered, they must first wake up God
For man is drifting from him they spoke, sure of it he must be spurned and awoken
But God slept, with nothing to look at, he closed his eyes and the drifters made fire from each other
Arsonists! With nowhere to put the ashes of rivalries and triumphs or calamities
No dock, no sandbar, the only place to get a dry martini!
And lips stayed dry, and eyes stayed dry even as smoke smoked out tiers of tears
The drifters’ driftwood fires crept higher and enrobed the beach in colorful bonfires
And salt has persistently beaten about the noses ‘til only a wind revived the smell.
But the smell was the catalyst, it heretofore was the sacred sense
So the driftwood men pulled each other out of the fire, still burning, still smoking
Running to the sea, lighting darkness as they ran, they doused each other until no fire was left
And once the drifters sat in darkness and ebbing tide revealed more driftwood, then work began
A beacon of hope but without the light, no guides in the ever thickening black
The driftwood drifters put together each other and in solidity devised a raft
The willful were plentiful and the work went swift, each drifter relying on the other
And as the night pressed on, waves breaking and building the shore as it was given a new face
But finally the sun was pinking the sky and night was aft to dawn with the past riding on its back
Sun came quickly waking the driftwood drifters, and they saw what they built together without ego
A raft had been fastened while the hungry fasted alike with the well fed drifters
No one could claim credit, as dark secured anonymity, what they had made was made, no turned backs
And as the sun crept higher and the day got older the saints returned with their baskets
They gaped at the raft and at first dropped the baskets then turned to run for the pope
The drifters calmly collected the food, with no one to direct how it was to be divided
Then they loaded the raft, with room to spare, and set to making a sail
The first order was cast with everyone in cadence, for all were to remove the shackle clothes
And modesty was not found for everyone looked around and then the sewing was begun
The patchwork sail was slowly formed and for the first time the drifters spoke to each other
Then it was lifted on high and attached to the beam and the raft was sea-worthy in the sun

Then a march or a mob or the marching of a mob was capping the sand capped dunes
In progression as demanded by the written rule of fallible men
The pope in the front flanked with bishops and eyes set and stern
They left only footprints that the wind picked up and left swept
They came on the drifters who were anchored for the first time, all nude and merrily talking
The shock of the free was felt to the bone of the be-robed, be-speckled old men
At first the pope coughed but silence did not happen and he looked to the bishop for help
The bishop made noises and got their attention and for the first time the group smiled at the other group
The pope spoke first his voice unsure, he demanded an answer for the raft
When nothing returned he changed tactics and asked why everyone was nude
Not a cough, not even for fake politeness, the polite group just smiled in freedom
The pope and his clergy exchanged glances and turned to confer with their backs to the crowd
Whispers were whispered and the free people just laughed and spoke aloud
A verdict was reached and the pope was to prophesize doom for those who rafted
He began with his scripture and turned to a tale of Genesis
Once he finished he smiled half-cocked at the supposed sheep, his eyes smug, the words were his drug
And he waited for the raft and the sail and the fish to be taken down and returned to be rationed

But a young girls spoke with no fire, she simply asked the pope to repeat the part before the tree
When he finished she finished him, she said “Father, we have returned that apple, that is the gift of man,
We are no longer shackled we have repaid that sin, and the gift we received was immodesty,
No ego now father, no snakes in the grass, no one is lying, there is nothing anyone wants to steal,
We are happy now father, we are fed and the food was better than the wishes.”
The pope acted smoothly despite the inward rage, he expected to turn the tide
But the real tide was moving in and the drifters were moving out, they prepared to launch the raft
His words were batted and swatted like flies and they died on the churned up sand
The saints were speechless, the pope was preachless and the drifters were soon asail and reachless
The shore became a speck, and the lighthouse was ignored because the drifters were now adrift
They weathered storms and passed the shores where new saints stood waving from rocks
Not the sun, not the moon, not the stars, not the food was better than that achingly beauteous freedom
And for forty years they drifted with anchor on the bottom and became tanned and strong
Then a shore was found with no rocks and no saints and the drifters landed carefully
A camp was made, then two camps were made and split the land in half
The raft became legend, the people were just tolerated as new saints and popes appeared
And to counter the saints, kings were anointed with a deception of the majority
A sad thing was brewing, but the inevitable was too and the new world ended as it began,
Nude people not by choice this time and clothed people, both claiming to hold the key.
The habitats were soon reduced to the drifting driftwood that drifted until it was thrown up by the sea.

Friday, April 27, 2007

A Name to Call Our Own

An old poem, a friend suggested that I should wait to publish these and see if they still hold truth for me.
This one holds a different kind of truth than it did before.

Words escaping in the heat of the moment.
People that held our hands.
Mountains that grew higher,
And higher
‘Til we could no longer see their tops,
For we were but foothills.

The air that we looked upon
But we could not see.

We only heard about it after exhaling
We were sure that we could breath
Some of us.

Some of us were not content to just breath
We found satisfaction knowing we could hold our breath
Not in fear, not even illuminated wonder,
Maybe defiance, but not really.

Could a finger be put upon what we were sure of?


No hammers could be brought down on the open limitless sky
Oh my, it ends at the end of the atmosphere.
I knew that, I knew it with every inch of me.
But I also was aware that the hammer could be brought down on me/us.

And that knowledge,
That beautiful song
Erased my fear.

Once I was gone the road would be there.
Not for others, my road was my own.
Once I knew that, I had no fear.
No fear would or could be found in me
It was then that I realized
Nothing would ever fear me.
And that was all I could ever ask for.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Cape Hope

Abe stood on the precipice of Cape Hope and cast stones into the air. They landed about him in the cast of his shadow, not one landed on him nor anywhere cepting his shadow. This could be explained by the sea wind blowing into his eyes and the sun assigning itself similarly. But on another token it could be that he was finally sated in his near lust for angst, he crept toward the edge with his toes and crept away with his mind. Abe was not a man though he fancied himself one. He was one of the misused who confused heartache with maturity, yet could not make the connection between the two because, for all practical purposes, there was none.
His shadow diminished when he sat down and the stone encrustation meant nothing now, nor did it ever. But it’s always easier to find the meaning in something once it has been done, rather than set out with a mission in heart. But this was the life of the young person, a young person, not merely a literary device nor poetic license without direction. However this young man was catapulting his version of life into the air so uncaring, he could not see and did not know that the words he used where so old and rusted that their original meaning could not be taken seriously again. His words landed on deaf ears as the truth landed on his ears, he was so eager to be downtrodden that he missed a bird’s feces as it landed near his outstretched hand. If he had been as perceptive as he thought himself he could have waited under it and given himself another reason to cloak truth in his self-pity.
Most folks who think about it do not mind a lie told in the context of being a lie, I don’t even mind telling one of these lies for I am a story teller. But anyone who tries to cloak their lie without consideration of their own transparency I will not stomach, there are those who make up their lives as they go through words that come to them from sources that they may have absorbed but not experienced. There are those who have convinced themselves of some kind of lie that they fashioned in a moment that is but only a moment. A life is the accumulation of many of these aggradations and desolations but not a moment, there are life-defining moments and moment-defining lives, but those are comprised of people and not caricatures. The story is secondary and the words a worthless afterthought.
Taking himself to the Cape was as close to a stage as he could get but he was acting, though he didn’t realize it and couldn’t understand how or why. This stage was the stage of the world and no one was watching. Maybe some wheeling gulls or gusts of wind that carried the salted air further inland, but the wind carried no scent of the boy, nor his made up troubles, nor his pent up frustrations that catapulted a smell into the air meant only for those foolish enough to think that they care about his self-pitying life.
His thought process was an empty one and his thoughts equally void. Yet, like a train wreck, one could not help but continue to peer into the abyss that he cast his ideas into. But also like a train wreck those who witnessed felt no envy for not being apart of it.
As the sun crept lower from its afternoon high, the life behind him marched on with no particular rhythm cepting a seeming method to the madness. As shop doors closed and window shutters were pulled to, as gulls were flying to the pier or the boatyard to rest, as the lighthouse claimed its light and then sent it out for ships and sailors that were probably not there, the boy found himself finally coming to a conclusion and everything he saw sang a sad note that was not pulled from a benthic dead-zone of inanities. He rose, slowly at first then reaching a height reserved for those who are perfectly sure of themselves. The boy now relaxed for the sake of relaxation, he ambled to the edge of the cape, he took two steps back, he looked over the edge and imagined it much higher than it truly was. His foot scraped loose gravel and loosened more, then in the same motion he kicked the stones into the crashing waves. They scattered and scrambled in the surf and he imagined them landing on the bottom after tossing and turning with the conflicting currents.
He planted his foot and prepared himself to slide it over the edge ‘til no ground met it. In the coming dusk he imagined meeting the ocean’s surface and getting to know its bottom. He thought his life would flash before his eyes but try as he might, it was not time for that yet.
He shut his eyes, this perked up the other senses and he heard a vehicle’s tires crunching about the lightly coloured gravel. When he opened them he saw a quick blue flash, at first he thought it to be his eyes adjusting to the dimming light but he heard the crackle of a radio, some country song. The hum of the engine stopped and the crash of the waves picked back up. He spun to meet the intruder and saw a face he didn’t recognize in a uniform that he did.
“It’s getting late to be out here son.” the officer said.
He thought, “I’m just watching the sunset.”
“Well you don’t need to be that close to see it. Come back over to this side of the guard rail if you’re gonna watch it.” The cop paused and they looked each other in the eyes. “You’ve got to let the sunset come to you.”
He looked back the ocean and then back again to the cop. “Yessir” he mumbled.
As the boy hopped the guardrail for the second time that day the cop watched him. He noticed the slumped shoulders and shadowy walk. He stood there for a second and said, “You best be gettin home b‘fore long. There’s always a sunrise to catch in the morning.” Then he got into his car and drove on.
The boy sat on the grass and did the second important thing he ever did in his life. He watched the sky and then he went home.

Sunday, April 22, 2007

The Pessimist Manifesto

I claim no pessimism on my part,
you'll do good to do the same.
To each their own.

He’s got an asking price to go along with that cockeyed grin
And a interest in heliographs that’ll make your head spin
But a halfhearted whisper puts his nose into the ground
Where his ears shudder in fear at each and every sound
To bottom of the top where the birds got no cares
And the salvo of the grace is playing musical chairs
And you, you sneer as if you’ve got an arm for holding doors
But you shut your mind up when anything so much as snores

Then a lacking masquerade of sooths are selling futures cheap
And you grab up a few while they’re picking your pocket clean
Then the time comes and you’ve got no money to pay
But they give you the goods for free, cause they’re feeling generous today
You have a lost violin looking for a missing string
You’ve made off with a fortune and you think you’ve been the king
But you lost all your life in the blink of a tree
When the asking price was carted off with the violin’s creed

There’s a hell that exists and it does so on this earth
When you fall into the world at your firstborn’s birth
And you’ve never felt a thing until one depends on you
But there are no words left, to scrape up to make it true
Oh, the last king of the forest is capping off his flock
And selling them one by one to whoever comes and knocks
You’ve got no trail home and the path overgrows
As your feet in uncertainty try to discern where to put the toes

But an oven is left on and it serves as candle light
As its heat fills the room and gives away its life
And your sure that the house is just around a corner
But you make so many bends that your sure your stick was shorter
And somewhere sits a gypsy with his masks on the wall
And he drew the long stick and since has had a ball
But all the Cinderella’s and all the king’s men
Have to pretend to enjoy him while he makes it seem so grim

Like your feet he wanders and wonders
He scraps up a quarrel ignoring the over-unders
Help a clown, that he is, he asks for no ones’ gold
He has enough to make his escapades squarely unfold
A picnic blanket rests where a bear used to sleep
And you make the noises that are made when around him animals creep
There is no way to hold your hand down
You want to raise your arm even if no one is around

Help a man who captivates the forest on his own
He must treat everything as an overturned stone
There are no suspicions left too wild to imagine
When you’ve been alone so long that friars’ meetings sadden
That there are no lilies to keep the orchard white
Or the sun from screaming down and smoldering your eyes
The last supper is had on the December creeping frost
When the trustees are gathered and leap about the moss

The sermon on the mount is never near or far
The sermon on the mount is seldom grieved for
Though its message is forgot with each son begot
The lashers lash their tongues and scratch at their spots
Calling all cars there’s a life in pursuit
Of something happier than a captivated group
There are those not willing to be someone else’s savior
And they’re trusted most, when the rider’s unsheathe their rapiers

We’ve no war left that isn’t worth a fight
There are no scrimmages left that don’t deserve a try
We’ve gone past the fork and to the deadening end
That leaves us cornered and looking for a buyer’s friend
We’ve no one left to look for when we need someone to use
Nothing worth fighting for except for not to lose
We’ve nothing left to give that wouldn’t end our lives
Why aren’t we giving? Why to us do we lie?

Saturday, April 21, 2007

The Wanted and Wanting

You'll find no irony here.
If that be your bag then look elsewhere,
for I am only interested in the truth and it's nuances.

Happy they claim, those who have what they want
A vestal for man to brag or to flaunt
The wish in the poet is never to write
The curse of the lover is to pen all that is trite
The emptiness stretches into an abyss
Until the empty is what the wanters miss
A gift from the freedom of every fringe
A grand gesture of the fire forever singed

Happy they find, in the beaches’ waves
An echo shouted into echoing caves
“My dear” he began but could never finish
As fondness and passion sated and diminished
Ever rushing falls of the heart inflame
Every sign, every post, in direction the same
It saves the weary a longer trek
But regardless the passion becomes but a speck

Happy they lose, on the shortening trail
Grass bending at feet becoming so frail
And steps in length become less bold
As the resolute falter or sink into the fold
Any takers? Any gamblers? Can you finish those searches?
Of ten thousand years, of ten thousand churches?
They don’t disappear they return where they’re from
A world so criminal has killed all that’ve come

Happy we speak, with words so thin
That every last letter has become a sin
When only gestures convey what it is we mean
But still in speak and pronunciation so keen
The pages have burned and ink as if wept
Will liberate those tired of false intellect
When any one with a pen can change the weather
We seek shelter and hope for it to begat something better

Happy will come, we tell ourselves
As if the property of it will fly off of shelves
The only answer offered is that something is needed
But the esoteric egotists only speak to be heeded
No matter how many times words are rearranged
They only need be spelled again for the writer to be hanged
For if there lies one letter out of line
Then out with the old and break the book’s spine

Monday, April 16, 2007

An Essay On Oil and the Future of Our Non-Future

Nobody will ever agree on anything. Ever.
Nobody wants to come to an agreement with other people if it might possibly change anything they’ve known in any way.
This is why people don’t deserve sympathy or respect.

Oil companies are chomping at the bit to get into the wilderness of ANWR, namely the 1002 area. Claiming that we can offset prices and reduce our imports if only those liberal, tree-huggers would stop impeding our progress. Well, sod that.
We as consumers experienced record gas prices in the last six years and were told that there was an oil shortage, we bought that in the form of gas. We mumbled under our breath as we fill our tanks at $1.75, $2.00, $2.50, $3.00 and even $3.50 a gallon. Then we filled our SUVs and minivans and drove places at one-hundred miles an hour killing small animals and children in the process, contributing to the poisoning of our planet and gave a bunch of savage fig-eaters (Big Lebowski reference. I could’ve done a lot worse.) some semblance of power and importance in the world. Who may be or are simply offering refuge to the reason the world is as messed up and chaotic as it is. As in terrorists and the cowboys who fight them.
The oil companies have posted record profits as we sift through. . . Record Prices! Regardless of how anyone feels about George Bush, ANWR, last night or tomorrow morning, no one, in good conscience, can deny the increasing evidence that much of corporate America is taking advantage of the War in Iraq to pad their pockets. And the oil companies are right there at the top, except instead of taking advantage of the chaos that is Iraq, they are taking the buggering right to your driver-side window. So if the reason for opening ANWR for drilling is to bring the cost of a gallon of gas down, then we should probably look past the trees and see if we can see the forest.
Then there is the aspect of industrializing a wildlife refuge, as in taking an area specifically designated for native people and wildlife, and turning it into a fucking oil-field. One group of the natives have sold their souls for oil also, being set to profit from the venture. With dollar signs in their eyes they say that there is no reason not to drill in the lands. They make this claim as if being from the area gives them a free pass to make judgments. They make these judgments as if no one should scrutinize their ideas.

Money can be the root of all evil in the right situation, in others it is just evil itself. There are no excuses for anything.

Americans on the whole have not had to suffer from the war. The only people paying the price are those fighting it and their families. In the meantime, diabetes and obesity have exploded as epidemics, Fox News and CNN makes sure that we are reminded of this each night complete with snazzy titles and catchy theme music to boot. The president says that we are addicted to oil, yet, feels the need to open our last oil refuge to offset prices, the only thing we’ve been burdened with as our military slogs through the Iraq and Afghanistan practices in abandonment.
We are in Iraq, refereeing a civil war. We are doing this for oil, don’t fool yourself, we do need to have that oil or there won’t be an America as we know it. But now that we’ve removed and executed their despot and disbanded their army, there is no strong arm, except our temporarily deployed troops, to keep Iran from invading and taking over the oil fields. Which ironically was their land to begin with, i.e. Persia.
Iran is predominately Shiite as is Iraq, although Saddam Hussein was Sunni. This meant that he hated the Iranians with a passion that rivals their hate for us. Saddam invaded Iran before he invaded Sunni Kuwait; it was in our strategic interest to keep Kuwait from being overrun by Iraq. But not Iran, because after the revolution that replaced the Shah of Iran with the Ayatollah, Iran’s relationship the west soured beyond repair.
When the U.S. withdraws which we will have to do, especially with the prospects of a democrat as president, Iraq will be Iran’s for the taking. Leaving Saudi Arabia vulnerable, which is the country sitting atop the world's largest oil reserve. When Iran takes control of the world’s oil supply then they will effectively have us by the balls. Also Iran caters to Russia who is becoming more rogue with the posturing of Vladimir Putin, and China who is set to become the next superpower.
There is not enough oil in the ANWR reserve to stave off such a happening. Which is why wasting our money, which first off, isn’t really ours, we’re just borrowing from China, to fund drilling for a product which is on the decline and will only increase in price when we are cut off from the teat that is OPEC, doesn’t make any sense.

The only thing that we can do is set our country on a path to alternate fuels now. Not only will they be healthier, but they will give America something to keep its recently soiled status as the beacon of hope in this world. We will be able to market our new fuel alternative and the means to use it to the rest of the world, this will be extremely helpful when the shit goes down. This country is fucked when anything happens that may disrupt our oil supply, ANWR should be a last and I do mean last resort. In the sixties we dedicated ourselves to putting a man on the moon and beat the Russians there. This was mostly symbolic but it did fucking mean something.
Now we are in a position to do something that will mean something. And not just something, but a fucking lot. There are no real reasons not to pursue alternative energies, especially when we can see its benefits and applications right before our eyes. The bother is keeping corporations out of the construction stage and let them focus on supplying the product to the people (Us!).
Goddamn it, I know that we are in a dollar-driven society and there are no reasons to trust the Enrons of the capitalist world. But we can at least trust them to fuck us with cash. There are no guarantees that OPEC and its more rogue elements won’t try to bugger us holding our addiction over our heads while we jump for cruel entertainment.

Anyway, we personally know how damaging extremists can be this day and age in our own country (look at the Religious Right’s influence on . . . everything). But even when Thomas Jefferson visited the Arab World he was informed of the need to wipe all infidels off the face of the Earth. We aren’t dealing in irrational disputes over different forms of government anymore. We’re dealing with a coming man-made apocalypse. We got a taste of it in WWII, but now every-fucking-body can get nuclear weapons. Does the government have a plan for a terrorist detonating a bomb in D.C.(?), that would destroy so many government officials, buildings, not to mention the constitution. Fuck the Patriot Act and Alberto Gonzales, we’re talking about the worst shit America would ever see. Would there even be an America? This isn’t house-divided, this is house-without-a-structure. What if Dick Cheney is away on business during said attack and has to become the President. That would be a thousand times worse than Bush.

In short we are damned if we don’t. There has to be an end to the human race sometime, otherwise the planet would choke and die, and we all know that the planet would sooner kill us off than itself. It killed off the dinosaurs and now they’re getting their revenge. I hope that when the next species is making poison out of my bones that they have the sense to avoid religion and politics.

Saturday, April 14, 2007

From A Street Corner Screams God

My aborted attempt at a modern Finnegan's Wake.
Instead it's an updated version of paragraph poetry.

Aggradations got me aggravated. Aggradations got me in a jones for something that’s not even worth wanting. But a lonely street corner is only lonely when the sign on the other side says walk instead of don’t walk and all those peeps zipping by like a bird in flight but don’t fly high enough for the sleepwalking, jumble-word-talking, asinine acidic qualities that we flaunt in settings designed for heavy petting with the eyes pointed towards the skies that appear as reflections in a lake or from the vantage point of the lonely street corner, in a puddle that is muddled with gas and garbage that even a bum who hasn’t eaten since he left his home wouldn’t look at.

And I say goddamn. I say it like a man stuck inside his plan would spray bullets but not the hollow pointed pointers described in dog journals for the walking funerals in their infinitesimal aggravations.

And I say goddamn. I’m a walking funeral that I describe on the fly in a way makes me less than a man but not more than what I cann or cannot be from where you look you cannot see for the sea because it clouds your visions even on sunny days when the overcast doesn’t gloom over fishermen casting nets or baited hooks to catch whatever sniffs by for a look.

And I say goddamn. I’ve been looking for that hook that was baited with me in mind because I’m the one that the larger fisherman wants on his line and even if I stick to the shallows I lay in wait for the gallows but a crass pizzazz parade got me jonesing for a way to silence the form of aids that = death to someone who just wanted help or even passing the buck from a slow-moving truck/train weighed down with clowns and tomatoes for sale at your local gas station as the patient patients wait for cadences announcing a new miracle cure that comes in the form of a pill that you take once a day so line up in the chain but if your gay go to the back because that fat man in the choke collar tie says so, so go, go, go.

And I say goddamn. Because I don’t have the disease but they tell me to take the medicine anyway and they say it so nice and punctuate with a please as if preventative medicinal stocks are going down and I need to buy them so the prices can make fat men fatter and pay for their new chockfull of tie tie-racks and I praise the new pirates not of/on Gilead but the opposite where Eldorado seems a mirage that comes in the form of a three story garage meant not for cars but planes that land in the water and sometimes on land so your local governmental figures can park where three dollar martinis are so foreign that the foreignism is not questioned.

But it is merely poured, slowly first then rapidiousity follows ‘til the shollows or the Shilohs, are encapitulated and snared into deeper areas where meaning lurks in the depths and dirks. forlorn. oh goldsmith. forlorn.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Answering The Hollow Men: A Poem

In timid trepidation I post this.
A poem dedicated to, and about, our tragic generation.

From the vineyards they called
Knowing only the languages they spoke
Sure of none else than the grapes
Positive of possibilities presented to choke
If yelling from the rooftop gave no response
Then at the heart of wine country they camped
Blowing hard and knowing all
But so uncarefully they stepped and they tramped

And we for all our beauty could watch,
To watch and nothing else was it, we thought.
And to be content or being contented
Was something we loved to be taught
Ease was not the hard thing to do
Not even if we went the hard way about it
So a satisfied face was normal
Satisfaction became a lie and an excuse to quit

Quitting was not supposed to be in our blood
It wasn’t a nervous system it was the nervous system
Sweat beading on our brow, breath speeding or slowing
Waiting in curiosity for a name to be christened
Those who made jokes of the poets already named
Shook as if in the rain or snow
And smugness could not truly hide
Anything they didn’t want us to know

Playfully ladies danced a distraction dance
Skillfully they played on emotions running high
As if control was handed over from the start
To anyone claiming the keys to the sky
Blame was passed like a well packed pipe
And it smoked and burned a widening hole
In the fabric we constructed to clothe
The ugliness we thought was part of the whole

There were some who claimed not to be affected by beauty
When beauty was the only thing worth being affected over
The man admitting this was carefully concealed, he thought.
At the utterance, forced to dip and dive for cover
Scared by the fearful, ah, a fate so reviled
To be afraid, when the true fear should have been to be feared
Conversing would be reduced at such a rate unforeseen
Towards the screen door a path freshly speared

Sordidly, wonderfully attached to country and form
Gamely making love to the stars under the moon.
Like a plan of action unconcerned with the ends
A severed love is or was to be reattached soon.
So soon to be relieved of pain sure to kill
That I jumped to be reformed and then reshaped
By the hands of the drivers on top, underfoot
On the southern tip of the continents great cape

Such a lovely way about it to be so lovely,
But a clean manner of thought was only sterile clean
The future could be foretold when only white lay ahead
But being enveloped by the cape was a fate not foreseen
A fate for those we might have thought fools.
Did they know our thoughts? Could it be they cared?
If we didn’t care was it to be expected of them
The only thing expected was being what none dared.

Is the argument not to argue one wondered
For if all others shouted then to be quiet was dissent
But taught the opposite we confused us
Was there something unknown we were missing?
Shoved into a pigeonholed yelling hole
Was considered a way to solve the ills.
And in this vacuum devoid of compassion
Was a place missing the blanket to abate our chills.

Abated and ebbed the tide was this way and that
Cause and effect were the effects of slice and dice thought,
You could only hope that you could see through the mire
And a glimmer of true knowledge could possibly be caught
Great thinkers and liars broke the mold they said.
They stood up to the tyrants and made the world right
But suppose the tyrants were stopped before their tracks were laid
Would the saviors be cast in any such light?

Is it worth to need heroes in the tattered, torn world?
Or can’t everyone be a hero in order to save us all
Then names could lose importance like scars are lost
And no names or saviors would need be called.
And in the moment of truth when the brave ones stood
We were told of the odds, in hopes that we’d forget:
That either something will happen or it won’t
And because of this nothing has happened yet.