I
At His dawn’s light we traipse upon our native ancestry.
As if some toothpaste would just clean teeth like God’s shoeshine.
Raping the lock as if there were an infinite landmass to ruin.
What would the rabbit wryly say??? “that sometimes down in a gutter is the most comfortable place.”
I can’t help but feel lied to – I must be late to a very important date, trying to wrest myself from a bed made by one Jefferson and Confederately tucked into it by another fighting atop a round table with as penetrable chain mail of domineering confusion.
Oh, you men are all the same. Remember gentlemen, the clothes will not make you – they will only own you.
What is one able to say of a forgotten past? The muted sound of skulls and bones buried beneath our marching feet which rumble from below a cacophony of industrial fiction – the middle earth of our imperial state…
Yes Men: this is our foundation, the bangs and the whimpers.
Entitlements belong to art and to Untitled pieces from the local museums. Privilege is for those who insist on bearing witness.
The rest is uncertainty where no one owns anything but their own fear and discomfort. This never was meant to create a license to kill. That is for men from a different time, aged special effects to distract us from our real potential. Your crystal stair remains in disrepair like your mothers have been crying about for years.
So is this where the middle passage begins? North or South of Harlem?
¡Santa Maria! Nina pintame el futuro. Seguramente que pesta. Para meterle mano hay que tener un manual… pues la real academia, se lo dejo ha Espana?
But why should one entertain that problem in the first place. Inquisitions that already know the answers aren’t inquisitions at all – just another senseless holocaust with sails flashing to the sky like carnival weaponry.
And this poem is like any other, obnoxiously self aware and without any concrete understanding. Like the human condition, with constantly more questions as our answers.
But this particular moaning is not a prayer for death. ¡Here we are reclaiming!
II
The greenest earth expands from the darkest winters; coldly blown treacherousness in a land filled with the fertility of opportunity.
The winds came long ago swiftly crossing the eastern ocean, but this third planet is circular , you’ll only end up where you started anyway. So to blame the swiftly crossing vessels carrying disease and torment are the same as any other.
Man forcing ways across the tides, where Cortez may have crossed the waters not looking for adventure but for a fighter… looking for a fight.
Blood cakes on our masculine hands the way mud might crust upon a weary travelers bare feet. Rain pelts the twisted metal of our fabricated earth and our meals of hardened bread from magma ovens. The cold is coming and I don’t want you to be alone down there.
Rain becomes sleet, the earth hardening, tundra miles turn into the paralysis of permafrost. The stiff frigidity of the unrelenting wind swirls around the most vulnerable hearts and violently attacks the circulatory system.
The susceptibility of man to his own handcrafted demonic fantasies flourishes in his icy, icy veins. When the snowflakes descend from heavens they are cast down lightly from above, fluttering like butterflies escaping life and into death.
The icy dusting rigors man’s rigid muscle so that they burst forth in stone striking fear - mothers and daughters crushed beneath the images of POWER – sons most fearful of a pummeling that would shake the faith of any god.
Oh, Man!!! This mean, nasty aggression swirls into a frigid tempest, the local population escaping as deeply into domiciles, the forever intolerance of the elements since those first few steps from the garden.
The cradle of civilization has crossed bridges of deserts bereft of water
OR bridges of this same frozen ice that forces humanity indoors.
The same dilemma exists – not whether we should escape our environments but why?
Why this fight for survival. Such a commonly held tenet of culture, that we fight and fight and fight to live.
But we do not fight to love… doesn’t it beg the question?
If the snow buries the living world for ages upon ages do we maybe forget to dwell on the right questions?
When our doorsteps are rife with inert and frustrating death, the struggle for life is certainly misinterpreted
The challenge of impending doom, that death upon the land is apparently the state of our sorry human condition.
The vast expanse of monochromal idolotry intensifies man’s frustration with his own self. Bound by one’s own statuesque existence, breaking the shackles of stone is certainly as impossible as we imagine it. Addonis has been perfect for centuries, and Venus equally without arms - don’t think such comments farce.
But to sleep and dream of a world beyond our own in the coldest hours of the darkest days we are ordained to create many myths.
Pomegranate seed fantasies give way to Doppler certainties, which insists that our realities are constantly manufactured.
Do not succumb!
Do not collapse beneath the millennial weight of pedagogical oppression!
Step on to the doorstep and dare the frostbitten tips of our hardened hearts to beat again with fresh warm blood coursing with love and compassion.
Our children cower inside convinced the snow will never melt. That the drifts and dunes that sweep across the emerald land and tuck in the brick laden industry of man may never melt. They reach for a remote control to change the channel.
Hiding in dark hovels of drunken loneliness, we think that this fight is only ours to fight alone.
¡Here we are reclaiming!
That our families are bound by ancient tradition of Household; that Brothers and Sisters are only defined by blood, the same frozen blood in our winter veins.
¡Winter IS our common experience!
From the first apple to the most recent bushel we are bound by a singular experience.
That the snow melts. ¡That is reality!... where the trees shed their leaves not because they fear the winter but because they are optimistic of the next year’s foliage.
The wars of anger and cold that we perpetuate on our heart? These same hearts we have steeled against each other over time - the same boats weighed down by any millions of bound and shitting prisoners.
¡We hold ourseleves captive!
This is unpasteruized history anyway - our best discoveries have always been inevitable. Penicillin lightbulbs illuminating our own self loathing is incidental, not accidental. The embrace of scientific faith is a fusion of fantasy and potential, God only knows.
¿Man fights man to the bitter end?
Nonsensical story telling of the bartered bond market trading eyes for eyes… or gods for laboratories. In an era where we deify ourselves, flying across the lands like birds, looking at instantaneous tragedy from foreign shores, we perform fantastically.
A commerce of human flesh exchanges integrity for the godlike sentences of death. ¿How long shall we brutalize this palace of potential in the name of our own anger and hate?
Beware our self-aggrandizement, do not confuse our own misunderstood evolution as an entitlement to life. The winter shuts the world in but this time to reflect does not insist that we Spring forward to visions of control and greed.
The fall of rolling hills crusted and descending to the icy slumber of our revolutions. ¿Is that our call to action?
¿Or is our insistence to divide and conquer the divine meme?
III
Suddenly, a distant persistent feeling – one that stings of youth, like a shrinking shadow from a plane as you stare down at the dot on the ground, that singular, unique place in a universe where childhood becomes an eternity.
An emerging dot shrinks, an oxymoron, true. The tiniest shade is cast from trees swaying steadily in the same breeze from stanzas before and the same powerful forces that make us hibernate – they extend from where they were lain long ago barking logic lines confirming conformity constantly.
Angry endangered voices rough with experience and selfishness, they speak strongly. Unifiedly, they twist on sandlot slides, bear traps armed at the bottom.
The confectionary voices should attest to that want, a onceuponatime when our desires were what mattered, indulgent needs were tempered with bible neighbors studying golden rules.
The jury deliberations demand no fault and the interweb experience attacks all our modern maternal needs: ¡Our sons must breathe the freshest air! ¡¡¡Our daughters must be the loudest warriors!!!
¡Stand against the dots! ¡The canvass is ours!
¿Blank, neutral, different?... a time now for translucence. ¡¡¡Let the light shine through!!!
¿Nonsense? A lightful festival casting more color than shadow where a changing shade of magenta captivates the children for decade – ¿¿¿is that really that absurd a thought???
¡¡¡Children dancing in sunlit rainbows engulfed in a quest for self-assurance!!!… ¿¡does that phrase sting your ears?!
¡I disagree!
No comments:
Post a Comment