Friday, March 23, 2012

First Meditations

One of these mornings
You're gonna rise up singing
Then you'll spread your wings
And you'll take to the sky

"I can take you there" she says to me
mouth quirked in vexing appraisal
"All I need is your soul"
One raised eyebrow, one dark smile from perfect lips
a soft laugh rings through my ears like such sweet cruelty
Hungry eyes betray her gentle facade...she wants to make the sale

She tells me her name is art.

And in my beauty-blinded foolishness, I ask if that name isn't normally intended for men.

She laughs silk and smiles pearls, chestnut curls bat her hips with a natural sway.

Art, she says, belongs to all genders.

And I'm so captivated, I barely catch one entendre in the double.

She is the image Coltrane was painting with his saxophone.

Manifest memories of fresh mint and raspberries in the bushes behind my Grandparents' house.

I am lost in her existence.

"I can take you there" she says to me
mouth quirked in vexing appraisal
"All I need is your soul"

And I swear, I see horizon beyond her curves.
Tears caress my cheeks in eternal surrender
She takes my hand into hers
and leads me into the future.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

The Boneyard

Welcome to the Boneyard. Burial of nearly established yearnings and righteous demands.

Where change never progresses beyond the spreading awareness stage - and this awareness is so often constructed on a foundation of half-truths and poorly researched information. We live in a shopping mall of false revolution - clad in our Che Guevara t-shirts, playing My Little Kony down by the Guantanamo Bay, hoping we don't drop the SOPA and feeling a level of self-satisfaction that would suggest our Facebook Status actually fixes a fucking thing. All we do is find new ways to Occupy our time.

While the Vatican CEO stands in a Jesus Christ Pose holding Mother Earth bent over an oil barrel. Tell me that we're on the right track. When we strip our ideas of their armour and shackle them to a table, running water over their bodies and up their nostrils, hearing them choke and spit, damaged enough to lose their effectiveness, but alive enough that we can parade their condition around for all to see, to solidify our positions as free thinkers and world shakers, and ensure the world we're not just looking for a cure to our waterboredom.

Welcome to the Boneyard. Built over negative energy yearly, and rapidly deteriorating.

Living in search of elusive lucidity, creative clarity, and metaphors mixed with cannibal seasonings - Where family money allows full use of cheap scotch and cherry-flavoured Rohypnol with not a whisper uttered - and yet a man forced into the streets for over a decade is arrested for masturbating in the privacy of his own home. Where the roads are repaired before they're finished. Where children hold signs reading "God hates Fags" before they're old enough to truly understand the ideas behind any of those 3 words.

Where we shake hands and pat backs, showing gratitude for platitudes, growing gardens of funeral flowers to convince ourselves we're not just waiting to die. Where each tick of the clock burrows beneath our existent shell as we cry cyst and pay to have the time removed. Where doubt gestates at twice the rate of a new idea, and we still find time to gloat about that project we're considering.

Welcome to the Boneyard. Betrayal or neglect. Elsewise, you're a rare dish.

Bargaining over nothing except yachts and renewable dictators.

Binging on narcissistic empathy, animal rationality, death.

Building our numbers each year among ransomed destitution.

Welcome to the Boneyard.

Welcome Home.