Awake (day 1540)

When I’m awake I find balancing points
That trickle down through clouds and metaphors
Like sapphire jewels having a field day in stage lights.
I watch children sprinkle their knees with pixie dust
And women walking with protest signs
Covered in bloody tampons.
I cover my muesli in chia seeds and hemp hearts
Because I believe in a well balanced diet,
And stay up late at night with my lover, naked,
Talking about what turns us on.
When I’m awake I’m a well versed man
Who believes in a conversation
That can change the world,
And as I do this I break down my understanding
Of how the world can change.
I’ll always believe,
I’ll always buy second hand and resell what I don’t need
To a kind soul with a good home,
I’ll always enjoy gardens that feed my mind, body and soul
Like a calming glass of water,
I’ll always walk with my heart open,
And if that doesn’t make me balanced,
Then it’s sink or swim for me
In this world spinning like an old Russian top.
And I’m not afraid to admit that I’m not awake all the time
Because fuck, we all need balance.

Zero and One (day 1434)

I am a number that’s been picked and then released,
Signed and dotted twice and
Sealed strong with our family crest.

This is destiny in the hands of an entrepreneur,
Folding up the corners and
Wrapping tight the family chest.

Watching lights twinkle in a glimmer of urbanized hope,
Shaking off flood water and
Minding the high level mark.

Without a standard ruling system we are all zeros and ones;
Counting guides and shutting eyes
And a program we just press run.

Fine Wine Dreams (day 1392)

This tap has run dry
Of its fine wine,
Just chips and dip left
On the mantle ledge.

A fire burns elastically,
Transfixing each gaze
Into a myraid of dreams
Slowly edging reality’s edge.

Darkness transcends time
When city streets no longer wind
About fir trees and hemlock,
Mocking life’s cruel new wedge.

Anarchy and His Brothers (day 1387)

With Israel and his son Concordia,
The Conquistadors contemplated anarchy;
“No!” Yelled the city streets
Against windows of innocent glassy puddles.
And thus the lost voice: Arbritage.
So from inside the ancient gold plated doors
Swashbucklers leaned on their pole called history,
Singing songs that rolled off tongues
Like fran├žais of an unbroken heart.

The two shook their secret handshake,
Clasped each a moon of waxing gibbous
Deep within their full hearts of innocent desire,
Coughing on fumes leftover from the army
Who had rolled through these streets
To a machine named destruction.

So who was left crying?
Not the lost brothers, silently creeping along
Dead back streets, poorly lit.
No, not the dead brothers waving rebel flags.
Not the flowers, forever resilient
To tumult and it’s darkness.
No, it was the stone covered city
And it’s sister: splinters. 

Hell is My Political Agenda (day 1356)

Our political agendas are nauseating.
They’re stuffed so full of capital letters
That the underlying messages of our society –
Hell, even our cultures,
Are suffocated with exhaust stacks and bottom dollars.

If I could have dreamed up a Heathenistic Hell,
I’d put city roads and destruction for progress
Right at the top of that scorched list.
I’d decree land had suddenly become a commodity
We could sell simply because we had a gun that said we could.
Just like young adults unable to find their righteous paths,
Explicit lyrics contaminating the innocent minds,
My Hell would be a prescribed better way, mothers.

Did you feel my heart as it’s ripped out every single day
When land mines help fight swollen populations,
Planted in a war to help save lives?
War to not war! Fight fire with fire!

And in my Hell, in my political agenda I call my country,
I would give us hope, every.single.day.
We would wake up to the smell of progress
And desire to capture it in any way possible
So that it could be shared with anybody we knew.
We would mutually feel good about the loss of our trees,
Because our heads were buried so deep in our electricity
Where we were collectively dreaming about
Ways to continue our progress.

For my simple pleasure I’d have dandelions everywhere
As symbols of true health and prosperity.
I’d pull up my old lawn chair, warm beer in hand,
And watch as all the sinners pulled out their organic chemicals
To spray the evil yellow root to death.
On the cold days when there were no death machines
I’d read my botanical books and let the rain
Wash tears into my Hell.

For me this is the saddest thought of all,
Because in spite all my attempts to rectify ignorance,
I would be a black seed living in my own true Hell.
I would be a puppet, inspired to raise my voice
And told that I do mean something to this Hell.
There I’d be, red faced eating my poisoned earth,
Handed another blank Party card
And told why I should be excited.

San Francisco - 201202 (144 of 809)