Sunday, December 6, 2015

This sea of madness

Sunday, December 06, 2015

I always come back to this same place
Where the shores of oppression are awash
With the scattered empty shells of the sea’s most hapless,
Beings snatched up by the savage jaws
Of the ever-devouring winged beast that dominate the air,
Each justifying its existence in this strong over weak world
Where any thing can be rationalized as long as one side wins,
Right and wrong, good and bad, mere labels to post on flags
So that one might explain and moralize the slaughter
As something other than eat or be eaten,
When the weak are most often the least able to eat
And are most often eaten to bloat bellies and inflate egos
Of those powerful enough to do what they wish
Without consequence or conscience.
I have spent most of my life wrongfully enamored with this sea,
Seeing justice and fair play where there is only chaos and greed,
Once believing that everything evens out amid the ebb and flow of waves
When all we get are the washed up bodies of those unable to compete.

Saturday, December 5, 2015

Power play

Saturday, December 05, 2015

They crave it like cocaine
Petty Napoleons plotting world conquest
On the backs of moist bar napkins and old pay stubs
Living in the shadow of their great fathers
Whose shoes they can barely fill,
Yet whose fortunes they squander
As if they earned it themselves
Feeding on some need even they do not even know,
Some unfulfilled ambition they see in other people
A fountain head of misguided logic
That paints them as a glorious prince
Hiding their lust behind masks of self-righteousness
They way Dorian Gray hid behind his portrait,
Too scared to ever show their real face
For the horror it would reveal about their dark soul
This craving, this ache for power, this need to be

Something other than merely petty.

Friday, December 4, 2015

Private Eye

Friday, December 04, 2015

They hate it when you give them
All the dirt they could ever possibly want
And they can’t use it,
Because they’re looking to fit you into a mold
But you’ve already made one for yourself,
Avoiding the typical white hat/black hat
Film Noir these guys like to create
In their attempt to create myths
They can sell to their clients,
When everybody should know
There is no distinction, just gray haze
Through which all people stroll,
Trying to avoid the pitfalls and the petty traps
Laid by vengeful, overly ambitious men
With Napoleon complexes
Who get frustrated and dangerous
When anyone gets in-between them
And their petty schemes,
Sending fedora-wearing detectives to stare
Out from the darkened doorways
Across the street, looking to find
The right kind of dirt for the right kind of trap

And all you give them is dirt to bury themselves with.

Wednesday, December 2, 2015


Wednesday, December 02, 2015

He aches all over,
Back bent from leaning down
Inside his box,
The hidden little man
With gnarled fingers
Bleeding from where they
embrace the strings,
His voice fading into the non reality
Of puppet voices,
He must make up
Because puppets do not have voice
Of their own
Or brains,
And yet he so desperately needs them
To say things, he cannot say for himself,
A gnarled man inside and out
Full of illusions he creates
And then comes to believe as real,
Keeping things in motion his only goal
In a life where strings get tangled
And he is constantly struggling
To unravel them so that the fiction
Might go on,
His whole life lived here in this box,
where he can control every little thing
Except himself.

Horror movie

Wednesday, December 02, 2015

Eddy Murphy said it best;
When the ghosts says get out
The monster never stops,
Its claws clutch even to the last,
Desperately clinging to last
Vestiges of power
Even when the end of near,
If you can ever get it
So near the end as that,
The monster never stops,
Ruthless in its ambitions,
Always sly,
Sneaking up in the dark,
And unlike the ghost
Eddy Murphy quotes
It never quite says
“Get out,”
until it has its fangs
in your throat,
by which time
it’s too late to do anything
but try and survive.