sure the world would word war
the earth erupt in erotic equalism
the tide took a turn
and the socialist sucked up the soul
to bring us a
ression rescue remebered by ragan's ragan-nomics
and trickle down trickery of time bombs ticking
close to that old blue book bible begining
socialism of the saints
no one who goes to God's glory
wants good ole fashion reform
they want
to wollow in woes
and a free market with trades
saturating greed and the lock of nest
on pricing to be forseen
what a day and age
as this...
America
needs
socialism
and democarcy
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Sunday, November 16, 2008
if the check ever comes to free a man's soul
"shower,
shower!"
the sweat made the underarms soak and the damp air made his head
hurt as if a cold was coming on. not the kind you think about when the sore of the back of the throat
bed-sides you. I'm talking about the cold of life's weary head on stone pillows and the naked
cloth of a body torn+++
the signs of a man wrapped up in himself is
simple...
forgets to bathe, brush the teeth, and look out his window. Never sees the beauty,
even if, he looks at the cage as a place of creative solitude, it still is a cage.
the self is a funny thing.
a deafing thing.
a crying boy.
the cold was like this on his 30th year on the planet
earth
__________________________once the man thought of leaving home
family and heading into the life of a monk-nuts-happy-go-luckly
mystic.
but that never amounted to filling the gap soul.
He kept the cell closed and rotted and saw no light.
The day of redemention was/is upon him/us
Winds rushed to the front door, knocking at the shutters on the bathroom window.
the man's cat stood looking at the front door. fighting the sound and waited to be let out, but the man
just sat still- banging the keys
typing the notes -never getting back home the man with vigor but weak strength
found it, I would say in himself, but that was not the case. He found it in God,
see God, unlatching his cat, knew that the man had to be pushed into the unknown not gladly did jonah find his calling
so too the man was pushed
flung wide open to the outside like a calling of veneration.
a parting of red seas' and the cat stormed out into the wild woods and took no time to dissappear the man not
acustomed to failure strapped on the boots and ran after the cat all night he'd climb trees in the neighborhood and
scream
"SOPHIE, SOPHIE...HERE KITTY..KITTY..KITTTYYYY"
making little kissing nosies in between the calling
long drawnout memories of the
first night he got his little one, ran through his mind and like light in the pitchblack of night
it happened
he finally realised the escape was a planned venture and decided to go back in.
by this time the wind rushed leaves pass his head and stuck claim to his skeleton frame.
forcing him to run toward the door to keep his jacket on. the stairs to the cave/cage
were creaky and afraid to wake any of his owners the man tried his hardest to tippy toe around the controlling
factors of his lonely old maid that demanded his hand, which he was certian would be used for ill gain and unrighteous
deeds to fufill man's lust for a power they knew nothing about. Seeing his fate to be one with the cat,
at first sonic creak to come from the stairs the man decided he too would bolt and be like the cat.
the first creak happened. then another, and then another, another.
soon the man was at the front door of what he knew to be a slave shack and
there, just sitting on the doormat was the cat pawing the door ever so lightly
the man opened to find soup on the table and a dim reading light by an old rocking chair
he sat back at the typewriter and wrote
THEY DON'T SMELL LIKE ROSES IF THE WIND BLOWS TOO HARD
shower!"
the sweat made the underarms soak and the damp air made his head
hurt as if a cold was coming on. not the kind you think about when the sore of the back of the throat
bed-sides you. I'm talking about the cold of life's weary head on stone pillows and the naked
cloth of a body torn+++
the signs of a man wrapped up in himself is
simple...
forgets to bathe, brush the teeth, and look out his window. Never sees the beauty,
even if, he looks at the cage as a place of creative solitude, it still is a cage.
the self is a funny thing.
a deafing thing.
a crying boy.
the cold was like this on his 30th year on the planet
earth
__________________________once the man thought of leaving home
family and heading into the life of a monk-nuts-happy-go-luckly
mystic.
but that never amounted to filling the gap soul.
He kept the cell closed and rotted and saw no light.
The day of redemention was/is upon him/us
Winds rushed to the front door, knocking at the shutters on the bathroom window.
the man's cat stood looking at the front door. fighting the sound and waited to be let out, but the man
just sat still- banging the keys
typing the notes -never getting back home the man with vigor but weak strength
found it, I would say in himself, but that was not the case. He found it in God,
see God, unlatching his cat, knew that the man had to be pushed into the unknown not gladly did jonah find his calling
so too the man was pushed
flung wide open to the outside like a calling of veneration.
a parting of red seas' and the cat stormed out into the wild woods and took no time to dissappear the man not
acustomed to failure strapped on the boots and ran after the cat all night he'd climb trees in the neighborhood and
scream
"SOPHIE, SOPHIE...HERE KITTY..KITTY..KITTTYYYY"
making little kissing nosies in between the calling
long drawnout memories of the
first night he got his little one, ran through his mind and like light in the pitchblack of night
it happened
he finally realised the escape was a planned venture and decided to go back in.
by this time the wind rushed leaves pass his head and stuck claim to his skeleton frame.
forcing him to run toward the door to keep his jacket on. the stairs to the cave/cage
were creaky and afraid to wake any of his owners the man tried his hardest to tippy toe around the controlling
factors of his lonely old maid that demanded his hand, which he was certian would be used for ill gain and unrighteous
deeds to fufill man's lust for a power they knew nothing about. Seeing his fate to be one with the cat,
at first sonic creak to come from the stairs the man decided he too would bolt and be like the cat.
the first creak happened. then another, and then another, another.
soon the man was at the front door of what he knew to be a slave shack and
there, just sitting on the doormat was the cat pawing the door ever so lightly
the man opened to find soup on the table and a dim reading light by an old rocking chair
he sat back at the typewriter and wrote
THEY DON'T SMELL LIKE ROSES IF THE WIND BLOWS TOO HARD
Saturday, November 1, 2008
I'm gonna find that sick ass ride.....
we must of been
half drunk and crazy
landing our bodies in the glen park district of SF
at a party filled with
middle age
socalites and the beauty was in
the balcony
hanging over the veiw,
looking down at the glory of
all the dark of hollow ween
and the lit up sidewalks of streets
below
and the winds picking up, and
the rain is falling in the east bay.
if you don't leave yr home much
the experience of the outside world
metamorphs more colorful.
shades of language
deep touch the
:::::::::::::::::::::::beauty
the decaying moment
of our little plight-venture.
professional photos of our redneck costumes
that felt more like our skin then our
personality and the saddness is in the rain
the pouring tears of god as he looks upon his
hope
the joy of the cold and the friendship of our deepest love
and the falling feeling
half drunk and crazy
landing our bodies in the glen park district of SF
at a party filled with
middle age
socalites and the beauty was in
the balcony
hanging over the veiw,
looking down at the glory of
all the dark of hollow ween
and the lit up sidewalks of streets
below
and the winds picking up, and
the rain is falling in the east bay.
if you don't leave yr home much
the experience of the outside world
metamorphs more colorful.
shades of language
deep touch the
:::::::::::::::::::::::beauty
the decaying moment
of our little plight-venture.
professional photos of our redneck costumes
that felt more like our skin then our
personality and the saddness is in the rain
the pouring tears of god as he looks upon his
hope
the joy of the cold and the friendship of our deepest love
and the falling feeling
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