Up in arms and out of reach,
From a helping hand in this spinning wheel.
Looking back as time goes forward,
Cashing lots on blind minds and empty deals.
Within and without with nothing new,
Still losing to the dealer of merciful hands.
(more) Blink of eye and left in debt,
Crossing out with pencils past hopes and future plans.
Up in arms, without a clue
Up in arms and letting it happen again.
Turning tides bring the sea up high,
just as turning tides bring it back to shore. (less)
Locked up in penitentiary of isolated mind, imprisoned to the media; 21st century of style. Images of worlds outside pass before my eyes, but desires outweigh the reality surrounding. Chains of social conformity, chains of competitive market. Chains of intellectual degrees and chains of following tide. No visits from(more) the president inside this ball and chain. Nor any care for the world around us, and the nature falling down. Don't rescue me, I'm in too deep. Freedom now will overwhelm my soul. Like a domesticated dog kicked on the curb, I'll grow old, and slowly fold. No, go rescue to youth, those still free from the chains. Rescue the infants before they lose their own name. (less)
Sitting out beneath the starlit night. Full moon due south now, just about midnight. Pondering reflections of the past: Falling off bikes, learning how to ride, playing kick the can, fearing the deviled dentist, afraid of what soon may come. Worrying about my current standing: How much money do I(more) have left to pay for food, Will my girl Britt ever call me back again? three weeks until I depart for worlds unknown and all I hold is the negative memory we last shared. Where can I find piece of mind in this reality? Contemplating thoughts of the future: What will become of me in Ecuador, Will I find what iv'e been searching for, What is even relative in this giant system of space and time, Will any of these questions ever matter? While sitting the grass of my past childhood, staring high up at the stars, I run through questions, in hope for light, but am truly scratching at the surface. (less)
Waking up in a strange, unfamiliar place. I open the door and walk down the lawn corridor to a raise in the roof and Corinthian columns for design. Red carpets hand stitched on the ground and still in the process of being made, as maid s sit hunched on(more) the fringes working their finger magic with each thread. A chair at the long banquet table is pulled out, as if it's waiting for me. I sit on down at the table decorated with cotten embroidery and of royal and gold, matching gold candle sticks sit spaced apart. Comfort starts to fill my soul as a kind-hearted butler walks up with a silver tray. Opening it up, I see three coconuts and a machete.
"These are for you, sir" as he leans towards me. I grab the machete, out of principle. and then two of the coconuts. In two swift hacks I open it up and pour the plasma like essence liberally on my face, with portions entering my mouth. Upon completion, I look at at the butler, who with a face of interest gives me a subtle bow as if insinuated I may continue.
I turn to him in ecstasy, "Fasten my belt buckle, I'm here to stay." (less)
There isn't any rhyme in the changing seasons. Stripped of sense and lost in feelings. Conscious of this but all else fades to backdrops. Shining like that lights the bright doesn't come as gifts, it's seen as servitude. Like darkness, unaware of all lights greatness, like darkness unexpected of(more) the changing viewpoints. Time of day that changes the mind continues on tracks, without coal in its back. Steam blows high and through the tunnel, blind to all and careless of their struggles, lost in ego driven meaning, committing the ultimate treason. Even with the books we read, we all still struggle to get down to the ground and kiss the dirt that holds us firm. Why does there have to be a rhyme or a reason? (less)
Write now at your own risk, take chances, slip get hit and build back up. finding funds in fun getting crook on corners, struggling beats with the beat seat, sweep stakes, blunt rakes, keeping strung high, getting words to the cure for the words of the future ones. holding(more) down the dream for the young ones to see and pursue to the end goal, final hole of 18 but the game just begins. ruled in a worlds of voices speaking void to the herd grazing in ego and self-deprecation, better off decapitated, ears to hear but do not hear, eyes that see but still gone blind, mind with keys but cannot perceive. Set on lock in the frozen crock of the power's pot. waiting to ring, bing, and get send to streets, sent to wars, pay for spending, called on for sacrifice, losing face and giving in to their evil face, take at risk, read with caution. (less)
Spatula with white custed egg, caged free due to the shortage of supply, all the chickens continue to die. Corn tortilla pieces, sprinkling the granite top work shop of the sink box. Banana peal, stinks for REAL, humid air brings its essence to air, making my nostrils care. Egg(more) shell in sink, disposal still asleep. 430AM too early to grind hardened shells. Chalked on black mud of french press coffee staining my teeth and counter top, poured down into the washing door for my work beat mind to discover in the afternoon. Passing on this messy kitchen to my 16:13 self, when necessity is higher as is my care for the appearance of this place. (less)
early morning, in the same damned seat I find every day. Veering at passers by as I occupy the black metal patio table outside Joe Lot's Cafe. Trying to come to words with the thoughts in my mind, meeting half way at belittlement and useless repetition on my Moleskine.(more) Might as well devote these hundred some-ought pages to "All work and no play makes Jake a dull boy." Then, at least, people would recognize it. I light my first of many fags and focus in between the ghost leaving my mouth and the cloud threading off the butt itself. This is all life's built up to be. Hungover, or not, the only difference is Artemis in my right temple, waiting for my agony to release her as Zeus once did. A lady walks up, though not an angel, she still is cute. "Would you mind some company?" I smite my but, one drag done, into the black steel table, " As long as you don't mind isolation, good day." As I grab my notebook and papers. She was probably a hustler anyway. Just like everyone in this city, looking for the gringo's dollar bills. Too bad I worse off than them, trying to make as a writer in an illiterate world. (less)
The next turn of keys, an opening cleared out for me. Light in the sound of things and colours in the shock they bring. Objects motionless in the still aired sound. With the taste of wind blowing and thoughts deeply thinking. Catching rest while time is eased, counting the(more) stones on my komboloi beads. New dimensions to an aged old soul, stripped of perspective and losing all relevance. Or perhaps it is just coffee. (less)
Just in time, the season's right. Fresh for the picking, with rich dew on sight. The nectar of purple, a mysterious tree. Sparrows on each branch, sing songs to me. I climb up the ladder, wooden and bowed at base, and ascend to the top. And just as I(more) get there, with orange skies of the morning to greet, I find me the riches plum, and pocket it for me. I find my self a branch and make a little hunch. I grab my plum, dust it off and enjoy myself some munch. (less)
Dark decrepit room, thick with dank moisture and heavy air. Thin rays of fire seep through the closed blinds creating and orange hue. Tiled floor with thin layer of dust holds within the scenes of unfortunate outcomes. In the corner lie bloody rags crusted and burgundy due to none(more) other than time and the unknown actions that tarnished what once was a fine white shirt. (less)
I'm probably gonna go down in history books. My plan of going into the countryside, building a log cabin and killing a grizzle bear should be more that enough. But even if that doesn't do it, I also plan on avoiding any others, because the media Loves that which(more) hides from light. I also plan on living nude, for that is awkward and seemingly entertaining to the media. I'll have a horse that I'll ride the mountains with and a conch shell to give fair warning. I'll write a book of uselessness and proclaim it as the key. I'll build a moat when the fans start trespassing and line it with fresh peach trees. I'll find some wood the dig a hole and burn it all within. Ya, i'm totally going into the history books. (less)
" Hello, this is Jones calling on the behalf of William. Can I speak with Hector?"
-"Hello Mr. Jones. We greatly appreciate your call. Unfortunately, Hector is currently occupied at this moment. If you leave an address or number, I will be sure to forward it along to Hector(more) at the earliest convenience."
"I am Achilles."
-"Oh...(Scuffling on the line) one moment, sir. Hector has just entered the room." (less)