POEMS/LYRICS BY JRS VIII

 

Guardian Angel    

Reply To New Age Consolations 

The Nemean Lion 

A New York City Holy Warrior 

If I'm Killed

Last Will And Testament 

Walking Together 

General Custer Lives 

Breaking Rules 

The World As A Video Game 

Soon, The Soldiers  

Philosopher-Kings? 

Put The World On Pause 

My Burrow 

I Will Fight You To The End 

Dead Earthworm 

Seagull

 

 

Guardian Angel

 

O Guardian Angel,

whatís that blood

on your wings?

I want to stand

beneath your shield and sword,

but I need to know.

 

O Guardian Angel,

whatís that dirt

on your hands?

I want you to stand above my house,

and be my flag,

but I need to know.

 

Oh Guardian Angel,

whatís that weeping

coming out of your trumpet?

I want you to be the shepherd of my children,

and the one who guards

my soulís treasure,

but I need to know.

 

You donít think I want all the angry voices

to be eclipsed

by the power of One Love?

You donít think I want all the scorched wounds

of the world

to be soothed

by the shadow of your healing wings

falling over the earth?

You donít think I want one great heart

to take the place

of the knives

of many nations?

You donít think that I want

Mecca and Jerusalem to make love

and the holiness in all the holy places

to become the One Holiness?

You donít think I want to open every door

to you,

to give you my weapons, my dreams,

and my life?

I am ready for you,

Great angel.

So ready for you.

Centuries of blood,

and endless achievements of hate

- batís wings we gave ourselves to fly,

and landslides of dark ideas,

leading to new ideas,

until, now, the whole

mountain of our mind

is collapsing with

thoughts of death,

that we cannot stop:

this is what has made me

ready for you,

long for you,

cry out for you.

 

Great Guardian Angel,

we are ready!

All of us!

Ready, at last,

to stop the quarrels,

and follow you like children.

Ready to surrender

to the Holiness.

 

But, whatís that I see?

Blood on your wings?

Dirt on your hands?

Weeping in your trumpet?

 

Are you truly the angel

we seek,

or only the same dark heart,

that stole the angelís face?

That used the angelís wings

not to fly,

the angelís hands

to wield a selfish sword,

and the angelís trumpet,

to herald Empire

instead of Paradise?

 

God help us,

when the angel is stolen:

May our belief in angels

not die!

 

Last night, I heard a voice from the wounded world cry:

He who would be the Guardian

of the Earth,

must pay the price.

It is not easy to be an Angel.

And we have waited long enough

to know what we are

waiting forÖ

 

January 30, 2003.

 

Back To Top

 

 

 

Reply To New Age Consolations

 

 

Sure,

thereís a lesson to be

learned,

something positive

to be gained;

a lesson to be learned,

something to be won

from all this pain;

a lesson to be learned,

a sunny day

behind the rain;

a lesson to be learned,

some dark horse

to be restrained;

a lesson to be learned,

some brilliant vision

to break the chains;

a lesson to be learned,

a miracle to touch

the lame;

a lesson to be learnedÖ

 

Yes, a lesson to be learnedÖ

 

That there are sorrows

beyond consolation;

pits with no steps leading out;

knives that stay

in hearts, forever;

good-byes that never end;

tears that remain

after the meditation,

that no mountain

can ever rise above.

When youíve lost it all,

youíll see.

That the only joy left

is the knowledge of beauty,

thatís contained

in its absence.

The longing and suffering

that is a way of worshipping it.

The crying eyes

that are a vow of loyalty to it:

and the pride of dying

like a warrior,

without ever turning oneís heart

off.

 

Yes, thereís a lesson to be learnedÖ

 

That not every cloud

has a silver lining.

That once you have truly loved,

the darkness

is enough.

 

A lesson to be learnedÖ

 

A lesson to be learnedÖ

 

Just keep crying.

Itís a way of loving,

and love is all

we have.

 

Back To Top

 

 

The Nemean Lion

 

 

The Nemean Lion.

What a battle!

He ripped everyone who came into

his presence

into little pieces.

He destroyed every incursion into his realm,

even the most humble breath,

the inadvertent desire to live.

But then you came to him

with the walk of a hero.

You faced his roar,

and his charge,

you met his dark, bounding shape

without taking a

single step backwards.

Thatís how much

life meant to you,

that you were willing to

look into

deathís eyes

to find it.

 

Yes, youÖ

 

You bore the wounds

of wanting to live:

the hot, bleeding gashes

of all your mistakes;

the deep trails of the claws,

that dug into your flesh to find

your courage,

like buried treasure

in the place where your body

became you soul;

the great cloud of dust

that hid everything

except from those who

knew the two yous,

the one who sought the lion,

and the one who returned.

 

One day,

after falling far behind your friends,

who thought you were just a failed version

of themselves,

you emerged from the wilderness

they dared not enter,

club in hand,

the fierce skins of the Nemean lion

draped over your body,

like armor.

Your wounds

had become your guardians,

and no one could touch you,

then.

The impenetrable hide of the beast

you killed

became your savior,

the battle that nearly destroyed you

became your protection.

No arrow or spear

could pierce that sorrow

and that wisdom,

no weaponís point or edge

penetrate the

power of your losses.

The battle gave you

what you thought

it would steal.

 

Back To Top

 

 

A New York City Holy Warrior (AKA Orange Alert)

 

Iím a New York City Holy Warrior.

My jihad is life.

 

Iím a New York City Holy Warrior.

My Mecca is to live right.

 

Life is all around me.

Why am I going to pull out

before my time?

Beautiful people

want to be loved.

Amazing miracles

want to be

seen.

Every day,

the Red Sea wants to part,

in some way.

 

Iím a New York City Holy Warrior.

My jihad is life.

 

When Eve took the apple,

no one knew

that the serpent was really

God, wearing a disguise:

Her sin, and Adamís,

was to believe

that life comes from the Devil,

and not from God.

I want to taste the fruit

every day,

in New York.

I want to dance

and laugh, my way of

putting the darkness

in its place.

 

Iím a New York City Holy Warrior.

My jihad is life.

 

Sin is living off of others,

like a vampire.

Sin is living other peopleís lives,

that you have stolen.

I have never been that way.

My life

is between me

and the Universe.

No one has a right

to butt in.

My moments of happiness -

Iíve paid for them

with oceans of sorrow.

Theyíre not

stolen goods.

 

I am a New York City Holy Warrior.

My jihad is life.

 

I wonít let hate

push me down into a hole,

like a frightened

rodent.

I wonít let hate

take my heart away from the world,

that wants my love.

I wonít let hate

make me be

the same as them.

I wonít let hate

freeze me where I am,

when I still have so far to go.

When Iím wrong,

I want to know it,

and I want to change.

But thatís not my way of

begging for mercy.

Thatís just my way

of being me.

 

Iím a New York City Holy Warrior.

Just as holy as you.

 

God Bless You, Mecca,

God Bless the pilgrims dressed in white,

and their holy journey!

 

But there are holy journeys here, too,

hidden in other forms:

Mothers standing by their children

in the middle of the icestorm;

taxi driver heroes,

driving all night in the shadow of guns

to keep homes

in two lands alive;

dreamers of the Exodus,

holy vision-seekers trapped in

the desert of waiting tables,

who make what they are trying to leave beautiful,

because they're here;

fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters,

sons and daughters

riding elevators to unhappiness

to bring something back

to the ones they love,

small gifts of light

that they make out of darkness:

love, and the power of love

flowing through the veins

of the cold giant,

hope that not even these towering buildings

could crush.

(That's greatness, to be so small

and not be destroyed.)

Here, in New York,

it's not what's in the store windows of Fifth Avenue:

it's the reflection

of the beautiful faces

looking in, for one moment,

before moving on

to the reality

of themselves.

 

When I come here, I don't see what

the enemy sees,

those who see only the pride

of buildings

trying to

pierce clouds

and make the sky bleed.

I see streets burning with the sacredness

of millions of ordinary lives passing through,

the unseen people

so much brighter than

the "bright lights

of Broadway."

Martyrs,

beautiful for the dreams they did not reach,

and for the children they left behind

to keep on

dreaming.

I see holiness,

so much holiness here -

itís like the ocean

pouring onto the beach

of my heart

that is wounded for all of us,

it's like the night

suffering from an overdose

of stars;

underneath its suffocating rush

are tears

that God could have cried,

and tiny moments of joy

that defeat

the stones.

 

I donít want to leave it

because of you.

 

I donít want

to give up living here

because of you.

 

I donít want to end up loving

its sins, because your hate has

driven me into their arms.

 

And I donít want to abandon

its goodness,

just to get out of the way of

your bullets.

 

Iím a New York City Holy Warrior.

My jihad is life.

 

And when I die,

when Iím finally ripped from

my wounded paradise,

let no one cry for me,

let no one say,

"Poor, innocent, helpless victim!"

Let them say, instead,

"Today,

a Holy Warrior

went back to God.

He died fighting.

In his city.

For his city.

Just by living to the end,

which is the same as

fighting to the end."

 

Let no one say,

"Why did he have to go out at that hour,

on that day?"

Let them remember this:

No man can be at the wrong place

at the wrong time.

He can only be

where God wants him

to be.

May Godís purpose be fulfilled,

even by my death!

His Will be done!

 

Iím a New York City Holy Warrior.

My jihad is life.

 

Praise be to God!

God is great!

See? - I can say that,

too.

 

Iím a New York City Holy Warrior.

My jihad is life.

 

Back To Top

 

If Iím Killed

 

If they kill me

donít shoot into a crowd

just to get my killer.

Donít put my name

on a bomb.

Donít cry

like I was a little kid

run over by a car

(I wasnít).

And donít use me

to do your dirty work.

Just let me be.

Give me back

to my holy mountain.

Let the wind

blow my dreams

where theyíre needed most.

Feed the hungry.

Clothe the naked.

Forget about me,

and live.

Find the heart you were supposed to have,

and live.

New meís will be born,

in the space

of your opening heart.

Find the heart you were supposed to have,

and live.

Donít pretend to mourn me,

and keep on being

only one half of you.

 

If they kill me,

donít seek revenge.

I wasnít a victim,

because I was ready.

Every day,

even when I was

caught

by surprise.

 

If they kill me,

donít seek revenge,

seek justice.

Thatís what will make them

die.

 

And donít cry.

Give thanks to God,

who loved me so.

I got out of here,

without ever

dropping His flag.

 

I lost my life,

but not myself.

 

Back To Top

 

Last Will And Testament

 

 

Lately, Iíve been feeling I could

die any day.

So itís time.

Time to write the will.

Nobody likes to do it.

They say,

who wants to think of black

when the sunís still out?

But for me,

the sunís not out.

And to be honest,

leaving doesnít seem

all that bad.

When youíve got a bullethole

in you,

and youíve left all your blood

in the right place,

it doesnít seem that badÖ

Itís like taking off

a heavy cloak of lead

and finally beginning to walk free.

Just thinking about not being here

any more -

itís like having a day off,

at the beach.

 

Heaven,

or Nothing?

Does it matter?

A pillow and a bed are the only Heaven

a weary traveler needs.

I did what I could, while I was here,

dragging this ball and chain

of people who didnít

understand me.

When they find my body,

it wonít be inside the prison gate.

Thatís what matters.

Even if Iím only one hundred yards

outÖ

 

Yes, itís good to write my will today.

To take out this pen

that feels so light

(now that Iíve stopped expecting my words

to save me),

and just let it write

"Good-bye."

 

I donít have anything to leave anyone.

A few notebooks

filled with illegible dreams.

An old guitar

with hidden memories of

songs that no one ever heard.

Diaries,

not for others.

(Why should they ever know?)

Boxes of secrets

that should be burned.

 

I donít have anything to leave behind.

 

Nothing to leave behind,

except for this world

that could still be beautiful.

 

Nothing to leave behind,

except for an empty place

to be filled.

 

Nothing to leave behind,

except for you,

the ones who wonít stop

trying.

 

Nothing to leave behind,

except for time,

which is slowly building

paradise

out of our defeats.

 

Back To Top

 

 

Walking Together (February 15, 2003)

 

Walking together.

 

Such a long time alone.

Such a long time,

being dissolved by the acid

of my dream

in a dark place.

Such a long time

like a hermit guarding

the mountainís soul,

with no human voice or touch

to take me away from the fear

of not waking up

every time

I closed my eyes.

 

Such a long time,

like the Buddha

of a broken palace,

waiting for someone

to find his way

through the jungle

to what used to be

in my heart.

 

Such a long time.

 

Walking together.

 

Such a long time.

 

Walking back

to who I was.

 

Such a long time.

 

It doesnít matter

that youíre not me,

youíre going to the same place

with your crazy rainbow

soul,

go on,

and kiss her, kiss him,

reason, rave, rap, or just walk.

Angels walk

more than they fly.

They want to be with us.

They donít want to

desert us,

by flying.

 

Such a long time.

 

It doesnít matter whether you come under your

mandala,

your hammer and sickle,

or your stars and stripes,

today,

youíre all blossoming

with what the world needs,

and itís wonderful

to be in the midst

of so many differences

that donít need guns.

 

Black, white, brown, yellow, red,

these are the colors

of peace.

Today,

our color is our dream:

our one beautiful face,

our one beautiful

skin.

 

Such a long time

 

Since I was me.

 

Since my beliefs

worked their way down to

my feet.

 

Since my search for the roots

released me to whatís

in plain sight.

 

Though the solution is deep,

the pain is right here,

on the surface.

There are times

when you have to

close the book of seeking,

and just run out the door

like everyone else,

towards the person who is crying "Help!"

Though itís only a holding action,

a life's at stake!

 

Lost cause, or not,

no one wants to die

without love.

If you canít stop the bullets,

hold the one whoís dying,

like a mother

holds her child.

No one wants to die

without love.

 

Though it might not be stopped,

every dark machine

needs a foot on the brakes.

If you canít stop it,

at least you can make that horrible screeching sound,

that lets everybody know

whatís going on.

 

Such a long time.

 

Since I felt there was goodness

in the world.

It took so much cruelty and injustice

to bring it out.

But the smaller some peopleís hearts are,

the bigger other peopleís hearts

become.

 

Such a long time.

 

Since I felt I

deserved

to be

alive.

 

Back To Top

 

 

General Custer Lives

 

General Custer lives.

He didnít die at the Little Big Horn.

He just took a rest.

And now heís back.

 

People talk about Elvis,

and how theyíve seen him,

riding down a lonely

highway.

 

Well, Iíve had visions of General Custer.

In high places.

And in the doorway,

where I used to stand,

like the lions at the public library,

but with a soul of love

that let people come in

without bowing.

Why would I want anyone

to bow down to me?

 

He who seems to do the least

does the most.

He who is invisible

rules most wisely.

Lao Tze caught the wind.

But fools

use their power

to destroy their power.

 

And they pushed me out,

to do things their way.

To make good people crawl.

To make a crown

out of other peoplesí

humiliation.

 

And lately, everywhere I go,

I am seeing General Custer.

His flowing hair and pride,

his saber stealing flashes of the sun,

his trumpets

trying to turn him into everything.

 

When you are empty,

all the pride in the world will not fill you.

And enemies

will never cease to come.

Like the waters of a river,

they will flow endlessly

from your own poisoned heart,

and never be exhausted,

even after they pour

into the sea.

You will win a battle,

and your reward will be another battle.

You will kill a thousand foes,

and like the teeth of the ancient dragon,

only sow a new field

of warriors

with them.

Your selfishness

will surround you with hate,

and there will be no way

to stop fighting.

Ever.

No chance to sleep.

Ever.

Fools!

 

General Custer was that way.

I can still see him, riding on his horse

as though he owned

the whole world:

the sky.

The grass.

The sunrise,

and the last red

streaks of light following the sun

into darkness.

 

I can still hear his bugles sounding through

the snowstorm,

at dawn,

the Irish tune, disgraced,

the peaceful village about to die,

so that he could be great.

Daring to

rise

by climbing up

a mountain

of broken hearts.

Daring to fill his own

pale veins

with the good red blood

of people

who were better than him.

Maybe thatís why

he had to kill them.

 

And that is what

he was going to do

at the Little Big Horn, too,

until his appetite got the better of him;

and his vanity and ambition.

And on that day he drowned

in his own insatiable desires,

underneath waves of beautiful people

who had no choice

but to become his enemy.

He fell on the slopes of the dusty hill,

overwhelmed by

what he had brought.

A hero to those as blind as him.

A fool to the sky

that watched it happen.

 

Yet, even so,

even though he fell on that day

of war drums and medicine

- (praise to you Sitting Bull,

praise to you Crazy Horse,

praise to all of you who would not let him

rob again!) -

General Custer is not yet

dead.

I have seen him around here, lately,

up to the same old tricks.

Prowling around.

Still empty.

Still unable to find value in himself

except by believing

others

worthless.

 

Still laughing at the world.

Still arrogant.

Still haughty.

 

Still believing that groveling and respect

are the same thing,

and therefore,

never able to get enough respect;

always offended,

whenever he sees a man who is not on his knees.

 

General Custer lives.

Lately, I have been having visions of him

everywhere,

everyday.

In the workplace.

In the citadel.

In the street;

and on the shipís bridge.

Heís the one whose hands are on the wheel,

guiding the ship

by the star of his own

dream.

His dream that he is

God.

 

Back To Top

 

Breaking Rules

 

 

Rules bind my hands.

Rules bind my feet.

I have a wandering heart,

but theyíve wrapped me up

like a mummy

with "Donít do this"

and "Donít do that."

Now, finally,

theyíve given me a chance

to break all the rules.

Theyíll untie me

for one minute

in the world.

Some oil

for my blood.

 

Like a walk

in the prison courtyard.

Who wouldnít jump for the chance

to get out of the cell?

 

"Itís good,

itís right," they tell me.

"This time, you can break

the rules."

How generous of them!

They made a dragon

just for me,

and took off the shackles

so I can be a knight.

For one minute.

For them.

 

Like a walk in the prison

courtyard.

A moment out of the cell.

 

Rules bind my hands.

Rules bind my feet.

But not over there.

How Iíve wanted to break the rules!

All my life.

The rules that keep me from life!

 

How Iíve wanted to break the rules!

All my life.

The rules that keep me from life!

 

"Not here.

Over there.

That way."

 

How could I say no?

 

How could I not go there?

 

Now I can be a hero.

Now I can finally matter.

 

Not here.

 

Over there.

 

Over thereÖ

 

Back To Top

 

 

The World As A Video Game

 

 

You always pushed us around

and took what you wanted,

you turned our sweat into your gold

and left us with nothing; but still,

you werenít through with us:

 

Now you want to use us

like your video game

("M" for "Mature"),

like your WWE Smackdown

steel cage fight.

 

Pop! Pop!

Zip! Zip!

Swoosh!

Pow!

Zing!

Take us out.

Prove yourself.

See what skill level you can achieve.

You want it to be painless,

with just enough blood and tears

to make it feel

real,

like the Battle of the Bulge.

You want someone from your side to die,

so you can

have a martyr

to cover over

our thousands,

like a bulldozer pushing

bodies

into an unmarked grave.

 

Pop! Pop!

Zip! Zip!

Swoosh!

Pow!

Zing!

War: the latest reality series.

 

Pop! Pop!

Zip! Zip!

Grunt!

Groan!

Sigh!

 

Mad with buttons,

dazed from the angel dust of games,

with minds used to fantasies,

you dare to break down the door to reality,

and enter our lives.

 

Autistic nation,

lost from the piercing truths of the world!

 

Trained on sofas, to kill.

 

Joystick warriors,

soldiers of the mouse click.

Who put the world into a Game Cube?

 

Who put devil masks

onto people just trying to live?

 

Ingenuous nation,

bombing spiders,

and following serpents.

 

But soon, someone from your side will die,

and then solemn bells of mourning

will bury the rest of the world

from your heart,

as you write the

next page

of history.

 

What do they say?

 

"Anyone can write a book

these days."

 

Back To Top

 

Soon, The Soldiers

 

 

Soon the soldiers.

 

No, no,

donít go into the dark water

the wise ones say.

But then the soldiers

will be sent.

Like little babies thrown

into the water,

the soldiers will be sent.

Little babies

coming back in blood.

Little babies

crying out in pain.

Little babies

drowning in the waves.

And then, who will be able to say no,

donít go there?

Everyone will want to

jump into the dark waters

to save them.

Little babies

put in uniforms,

and thrown into the waves.

 

Soon, the soldiers.

 

No, donít go there

the wise ones said.

Itís wrong.

But then, the soldiers will be sent.

And since no one wants to say

My son and daughter

are being used by the dark

war machine,

the hungry war machine,

the unfeeling war machine,

the war machine that ran over

the flowers of peace

when they were still blooming,

they will say

My son and daughter are

fighting to free the world.

Disagree,

and to them,

it will be like you,

yourself, were shooting at their children.

 

Soon, the soldiers.

 

Human shields used by

ambitious men,

to keep you from reaching

the black truth

of what they are doing.

From the maps they want to change

with words of liberty

and claws of beastsÖ

 

Good young men and women

who only wanted to be of use,

set up all around the killers,

like a wall of hostages.

Sandbags of people

we love.

 

"Support the troops."

"Support the troops."

Dragging you behind the crime

because you want to defend

the beautiful people

who have just been thrown

in the path of your

peace march.

 

Dragging you behind the crime,

because you want to defend

the beautiful people

who have been turned into invaders,

but who, for you,

will always be their

good intentions,

and your love for them,

not the targets they

have been given.

 

Soon, the soldiers.

 

They are the ace in the hand of the killers,

when they are caught, red-handed,

tearing out the bowels

of nations.

 

"Support the troops."

Your sons and daughters,

your neighborsí sons and daughters,

put in the way of your gun

of love.

 

Soon, the soldiers.

 

The dirtiest trick

of a dirty war.

 

Back To Top 

 

 

Philosopher-Kings?

 

Workers.

Soldiers.

Philosopher-kings.

 

Workers.

Soldiers.

Philosopher-kings.

 

The perfect system.

 

Everyone has a job to do.

 

The workers build the city.

The soldiers defend it.

The philosopher-kings rule it.

 

Everyone does what he does best.

 

The workers sweat.

The soldiers shoot.

The philosopher-kings rule.

 

The perfect, logical order.

Everyone is master of an inch.

Virtuoso of an inch.

Genius of an inch.

Put the inches together,

and you have a country.

The philosopher-kings are the high-flying hawks

who see it all,

the only ones to have a vision of the whole:

because thatís their job.

 

Although it seems to be a democracy,

itís really Platoís beehive.

The workers work.

And trust.

The soldiers fight.

And trust.

The philosopher-kings rule,

rising high, like eagles,

upon that trust.

 

Trust is the only solution.

No one has the time.

 

Except for the philosopher-kings.

Thatís their job.

 

Trust is the foundation.

Thereís too much to look at,

after eight hours.

 

The philosopher-kings

will look for you.

 

Although it seems to be a democracy,

it is really Platoís beehive.

The workers say, "Tell us whatís going on

out there."

The soldiers say, "Tell us whoís the enemy."

The philosopher-kings do it.

With the face of Gods.

With the voice of fathers,

telling children

a bedtime story.

With the robes of wise men,

who see and know all.

 

The philosopher-kings are the queen bee.

The center of the hive.

Who could do

without them?

 

Like God,

who arranged all the wild intricacies of Nature

into something that works.

 

Who could do without them?

The philosopher-kings.

 

Workers.

Soldiers.

Philosopher-kings.

 

Workers.

Soldiers.

Philosopher-kings.

 

The perfect order.

 

Trust.

 

The perfect order.

 

Except for one small thing.

 

The philosopher-kings are not philosophers.

 

The trust was raped.

 

The philosopher-kings are not philosophers.

 

Wisdom and justice?

 

The trust was raped.

 

The philosopher-kings are not philosophers.

 

They are blind

and hungry,

and they will lead you into

the darkness.

 

They are kings.

 

Yes, they are kings.

 

But not philosophers.

 

They are kings.

 

Yes, they are kings.

 

But not philosophers.

 

Poor world.

Going into the darkness.

 

Guided by fools.

 

"And many shall be

the false prophetsÖ"

 

Philosopher-kings?

Back To Top  

 

Put The World On Pause

 

Can somebody just put the world

on pause?

Can we freeze it right now

before the bombs start falling,

and just look at this picture

when thereís still life

in the streets,

before the glass of peace

is broken?

Can we freeze it right now,

can we just have some time to think?

To figure things out?

There must be a way

to save this beautiful day

before it falls

off the mountain.

Maybe we can find an answer.

Maybe we can find a way

to keep the sun out.

Maybe we can just go back,

and start again, take another path.

Can somebody please hit the rewind button,

and take us back to

the day when we were

still friends?

Back To Top

 

My Burrow

 

Wanna go into

my burrow,

not to see,

not to feel,

out of reach.

They can walk

right over me,

without ever knowing

Iím there.

I donít want to come out.

I donít want to be a part of

this,

I donít want to know about

it,

I want to dig deeper

into my dream world

where none of this is happening.

I donít want to face

their cruelty

or my powerlessness.

I want to hide

in a dark, kind place,

and cling to the beauty

that dies the moment

it is brought

into the daylight.

I want to be nocturnal,

subterranean,

below this,

and to the side.

Itís enough to see their boots

pass by

through the tiny entrance

to my hole,

I donít want to see

where theyíre going,

or what the hands above them

are carrying.

Itís a good time to be deaf,

to be blind,

to disappear with oneís

heart, and all of oneís senses,

into a burrow,

into a dream,

a fantasy,

the reality

they did not choose.

 

For a sensitive soul,

whenever thereís a war,

itís like the earth had no

ozone layer.

Who can live

exposed to this fierce energy?

Every drumbeat is a building

in ruins.

Every cheer means

somebody has died.

For every one whoís lost his life,

thereís another whoís lost his soul.

Who can live out here?

Who can live in a world

without love?

 

I wanna stay in my burrow

till itís over,

and maybe even after itís

over.

But every once in a while,

a voice penetrates into my hiding place,

like rainwater leaking in.

Some child crying,

some mother mourning.

Someone who "got in the way."

Someone who doesnít have a burrow

like me.

And something rises up inside of me,

then,

that forces me to come out,

even though I know

I canít survive here.

Even though the air is poison -

even though the burning rays

turn hope to ashes -

I come.

I have to.

Just like a river has no choice

but to flow downhill,

so I flow

towards that crying.

Even though I canít live here,

I can still

love.

 

Back To Top

 

 

I Will Fight You To The End

 

 

I will fight you

every inch of the way.

When you think youíve won

and gotten past me,

Iíll still be there

like a weight in your backpack,

slowing you down,

wearing you out with my conscience

under the hot sun

of the truth.

Youíll kill

and say "Too late."

Iíll cry

and say

"I havenít gone."

Youíll put your flag up

above a crater,

and Iíll say the name

of what used to

be there.

Youíll hide

the blood

and Iíll dig it back up.

Iíll pursue you

like the Furies,

with their snake-hair

and their memory-whips,

Iíll chase you

down the streets of your

poison victory.

Iíll haunt you like

a ghost.

Iíll be like

a sandstorm in your face,

and like a broken muffler

dragging underneath

your car.

When you say

"You couldnít stop me",

youíll hear me

still saying "No."

Iíll be the cut

that wonít stop bleeding.

 

Like a shadow

of a thousand pounds,

Iíll follow you

everywhere you go,

I wonít let you

get away from you.

Iíll make you

have to wade through the river

of my soul

every time you want

to hurt someone.

Iíll be the

hundred little seeds

in your fruit,

that you have to spit out one by one,

sniping at your pleasure.

Iíll be the bee

who buzzes around

at the picnic,

the hangover after the party,

the muddy track

that keeps you from setting

the world record.

 

Iíll be your best friend

disguised as your

worse enemy.

I wonít let you go to Hell

without a fight.

I wonít give up.

For them,

or for you.

For now,

or for the

future.

 

One day,

youíll thank me for being

the thorn in your side

that wouldnít let you miss

the dawn

of your opening eyes.

Back To Top

 

Dead Earthworm

 

I saw his dried-out,

rigid

carcass

lying there,

with his head pointed down

at the sidewalk,

as if, to the very last,

he had been trying

to dig his way through

the cement

back to his home:

the earth.

Back To Top

 

Seagull

 

I hear a seagull.

Columbus thought "land!"

I think "sea!"

Even in this sad,

powerless place,

the might of the sea

is never far away.

Back To Top

 

 

 

 

Poetry & Lyrics Contents

 

Creative Safehouse Contents

 

 

 

 

Site Contents