Blog Post 002

In the middle of the circus, east of the wheat; My soul can't discuss what I'm unable to meet. See, the circus is blood— but the circus takes bets. I love all the people, the people I've met. But the ones I can't stand, are the ones in the tower. Chopping down forests, and sharing no flour. See, the Apple to me— filled with worms, we can't see.. But they wriggle, they wriggle, they wriggle so free. Hark; there's love, compassion, empathy.. and more. Oh, there's more hidden— throughout the war. But the soul endures, again and again. But it's been buried before, and buried again. For recurrent in sin, there's always a settle to score. But the circus has bread, and slot machines too and love and compassion— to boot. But the bread is a circus, it gives you no life; only shows you the clowns that govern your strife. But lo and behold there are options still low, (even some high) if you know where to look (and where they'll hide.) But first you must step, step out from beneath.. beneath that patterned tent.

Don't look to me for faith, because humanity stole mine. If unity is our power, what's with all this separation? If equality is our desire, why all the hatred: turned into a fire? In a society of suckers who's the real mother fucker? Refugees to the east, or the "wetbacks" to the south? Racism running rampant, from our throats, into our mouths. Disdain for our brothers with our different colored mothers. But polarity invites prosperity, or lands somewhere within. Your mind is made of molded matter, and lest you waste your space.. to preach of peace without intent, is quite the tribulation. Have we become the thing we feared, a bloody trial by fire? Will our Will be overcome with the greediness of fate? Or will we slice the willing tongue which preaches all the hate.

Drugs provide the highs to stimulate my lows. But if a low is what keeps me high, who’s to say sadness is what I really know? I use my downers as my uppers— stark, clad, disguised as all my lovers. Fervor’s favor defines it best: intensity at its core. But intensity breeds insanity, and sane minds choose to embrace it less. For all of life within itself remains a tender jest. Prescriptions cure such remedies, but this heart bears no solace. Selflessness is not my nature, nor would I ever act it. I want what’s best for me, and I will not try to mask it. Still you say you want the same— until it comes to asking. The choices chosen, a love too broken— makes for a form of furnace. Substance lies within the grime: melted, charred, burnt, and mangled. Such is the story inside a mind— of two souls, once so entangled

We needn't a hero, Nor beg of a savior The help we "need," has been given a flavor Flowers and hours And Towers and powers And all of the stuff we see; Toppling one by one We needn't a hero, Nor ask for an answer Yet here come the seed, Shot straight from a planter (See,) If the dollar were zero, (How could that be?!) The money we need Turned money for weed And all that we see Is all we become. If the dollar were zero, I'd beg of a hero; To give me what I want. I want to live (To die) In peace To die (To live) While high oh well Oh shucks Oh me, Oh my. Wait, Is that a jet flying by?

The party moved back inside by now, it’s no longer on the patio. I’ll smoke a cig and puff a joint, but I no longer wish to mingle. There’s not a single thing I’d rather do, than offer the breeze my warmth. The air is heavy with falsity tonight, sometimes it makes me giggle. Egos galore and they’re begging for more, but none of them want to listen. The people all speak, fervently- but nobody knows what they mean. There’s monkeys in the trees by now, and they’re throwing down their poo. There’s rain on the parade, a hole in the roof and it’s soaking all the nanners. The cymbals clash, but nobody knows the reason. The band stopped playing, (or the radio cut out-) but the fiesta picked up an S. The Mother's concerned, and the Father's been burned, but they didn’t prepare the child. Room after room after room and again, But the doors never seem to end. The wind carries nip, or a chill or a bend, as do the texts that we promised we'd send. A silly old rhyme, and a cadence to match, and maybe that’s pretty to you. But the pots and the pans all clatter- and damn, is that cacophony to me.

And suddenly, it is six in the morning, the sun has yet to rise still- and I am halfway across the country In an apartment with hardly a thing to my name. Life is sweet, but life is bitter. I quietly spill tears and listen to the cars passing outside. Two tears trail down my face. One tear weeps with joy, for all of the circumstances that brought me here. The second weeps in anguish, for all of the deaths it took to live this way. But both tears feel as they should.