Monday, August 18, 2008

Ranting and Rhyming

So yeah.... I did this one as I was changing to go out after having done Critical Mass.

It's interesting.

I was going to edit it, but it's funner this way.

[Editor's note, January 2009: I apparently typed up what I actually said, so here it is.]

So who are you. Where do you come from? Why did you come here? Why are you saying these things that don’t make sense and don’t make me believe what you have to say?
I was once a lonely man like you. But I thought I was true. I thought I’d be blue And I thought that maybe you might tell me something that would resonate but it didn’t. And it would never resonate it would never make sense. It would never vibrate at the same point where you make repents

Given the fact that I was once an old man. Given the fact that I knew what it was like to live on cold land. I knew what it was to be another sacrificial lamb. But I thought I could be something with this new hand. It was black and it was golden, and it was white and it was shiny. Thought another time, would be deserving, but it was blinding.
It was blinding me because power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. How can you absolutely tell me that you can live without me?
Another time another place, another dream gone bad
Another time, another hate, another reason that’s been had
Hate rapes its own time.
Hate rapes
Hate hates its own miniscule existence but tries to rhyme.
How do we believe but how do we forget. And how do we ever think that we could vent? Our own little mischievous forgivings that are always understanding.
Misbelieving, disbelieving, How did I ever end up here? How did I end up grieving for my own resistance and my own time .
Thought I was the reason, but I came up shy.
Hated me once, and hated me twice.
Thought I was done but it came up to be thrice.
Forgone givings, liver splittings, Hope to God
I don’t know what I’m really rhyming.

Friday, August 8, 2008

Dig for Memories

It took me ten years to truly comprehend how TV twists and turns truths to fiction and fictions are turned into realities and realities to memories embedded within the sheet that keep us firmly cemented into temporal safe-havens that warmly cuddle and muzzle our fears from screaming, seeming to blur the lines between what binds and what reminds.

Unknown to my mind, I gratefully knock the dirt out of the holes as I dig for memories in the rain. I slosh and buckle under the pressure, measuring my own mistaken digging for a purposeful end where I’m shoveling for the future. For the enlightenment of ages to come from seeking the unknown. In the dark I see nothing but an inconsequential incontinence of a continental paradigm shift happening somewhere that momentarily moves, not mountains, but foam thrills. And with honed skills I see through the darkness with the sight left to those who have indigent sensations that float forward into a rush of air. My homeless feelings are tired of seeing itself flittering forward toward a misplaced metaphor that you can’t even shovel off the floor.

Now, back to the rain pit of despair where I dig up new earth with purpose to sink to the bottom and realize this new birth. Digging for memories through the rain that reasonably febreezes through the new seasons as the cause and effect of an unattended scene ends in a framework most undoubtedly European. Digging for memories in the dirt with nothing to pick up but lose rigor to unearth. Digging for memories at a time when I forget my own names, when I callus in the head, and when I remember the inane.