poetomachia

Well, John the Baptist after torturing a thief
Looks up at his hero the Commander-in-Chief
Saying, “Tell me great hero, but please make it brief
Is there a hole for me to get sick in?”

The Commander-in-Chief answers him while chasing a fly
Saying, “Death to all those who would whimper and cry”
And dropping a bar bell he points to the sky
Saying, “The sun’s not yellow, it’s chicken”

How can we hold to our ideals
While swinging from the trees
I’m placing a call out to you
Walking streets, kicking leaves

We are surprised by the compromise
Far from uninformed, and unknown
We arrive on the wings in power
Frightened to find ourselves alone

Opening the door to impossibility
Peering through to opportunity
Walking through to only become
Realized potential, dream-like reality

I am drawn, tired of being 43
On the eve of something more
Maybe tomorrow I’ll be ready
And yes, today’s succession will find me 44

Do we twist too hard to wring words from
Pen, paper, time, mind, experience,
Dictionaries, truisms, already well stated,
But revisited, can the new turn
Yield something
Anything unseen
Blind leading the blind

Disruptive technology

I looked up today and saw the moon in it’s hateful spite
Leaving no wonder, only shock and awe, as it burned bright
High on rebellion, forsaking it’s bed of stars and night
I long to follow it into darkness, lost in it’s light

The simple cross made complex by Christ
Did he make all ways to death complicated?
How hope confuses. How faith frustrates.
Is the greater grace to lose it all?

A thousand miles of dirt
And mindless crushing pressure

A perch of polished rock
A vantage point for beauty

An ambush field of monsters
From shore to horizon

A refreshing playground
A place to laugh with friends

A nagging decline
A chance to enjoy

Too terrible to comprehend
Too glorious to take it all in

Here we are trapped beneath the hateful sky
So shallow, so alone, born without purpose
Given no freedom, we hate ourselves to be
And annoy those about, awakened to frightful

Ceaseless in our wandering, misshapen in our haste
We become the awful, rushed, hurried, frazzled
Could there be even now beyond our wildest thoughts
Our strangest concoction of existence once

Here we lie beneath, filtered distilled
Forgotten by land and progenitor
No hope outside the ceaseless beat
No wisdom aside from that of flight

There are so many words
I could spend many days
Many pages always forever
Writing, attempting to script my thoughts

Probing the depths of my feelings
Are they possible to be captured
Or just various stabs,
phrases, scenes that allude
Sort of an aging memory

begun as a comment on forty minutes of freedom, it became a work in and of itself:

chained glory.
fenced field.
ebullient death.
fast yield.

Breaking my back on time
Feeling it twisting my spine
I’m broken, I’m not well
Dragging my body to hell