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In Another Time

If I was born a thousand years ago
perhaps the beauty of birds
or all the natural world
would have been enough for me,
but mere words in adoration
cannot stay my head from pain
while all the skies are pretty blue
and all praise of nature the same
as the poet’s eternal view.

If I was born one hundred years ago
I would have spewed industrial lines
and wrapped myself in soot and coal
to smell like rugged workers in the mines,

But I was born defined by tech,
made mad by the mechanization of life,
the robotics of being young
and needing force fed technical knowledge,
while nature grew ever distant,
and the unnatural act of living the norm:
the endless going and coming
amid a plight to work to live
and the weakness of starvation
brought forth through things that should make life better,
yet have taken the form of our Masters.

Alone

I would tell you
that you
are not alone
and reference
two bodies tied
to each other
in space,
as if
there wasn’t remoteness,
attraction,
and passing
souls in motion
toward decay
to save you
from the pain,
but each of us
alone
from birth
has this horror:
a loneliness
and strafe
from being
born into this,
that we cripple
under it’s weight.

The blonde
walking unachievable
beyond window
or reach,
or the syllables
to say
with ease
what one would want
to get across
without
translation’s cost.

Alone
fetal
we grasp
for each other
like computers
suddenly self aware
with such different code
that translation
might never be a thing.

Into The Trenches

We are out gunned,
out skilled, and ill equipped
for this oppressive force,
but into the trenches
and under the radar we go,
for there’s an enemy within.

Dig in, dig in.
dear men,
object to the occupation
and torture of your land.
For all it stands for
go deep into the trenches.

Into the trenches,
into the guerilla suits
of men forced to make David bleed
when Goliath is an f-16
and the money to buy men off.

Dig in, dig in
into the trenches once more.

The Serapeum at Saqqara

Precision and prowess is
clutched within the bowels
of the serapeum’s stone walls,
proud geometric boxes
of suspicious skill.

These six sided puzzles–
missed for countless eons,
labeled each a sarcophagus
without body or bull
to back that thesis up.

Laser like mathematics
stand as velvet to tools
now lost within this world,
while the walls are crude cut
above any suspicious marks.

Would an artist forget the roof
or a thief be after the bones?
What if the bulls never existed
and the granite was much older,
covered to simply protect it?

More on this topic in my poem: A Pharaohs Rise

Atlantis

I live in Atlantis,
sunk deep beneath the ocean waves:
hope is mere semantics,
for my people cannot be saved.

They speak of atonement
and whisper to almighty Zeus,
certain that death’s moment
is but a cleaver ruse.

The best surely believe,
and certainly they do;
the worst pick up where others grieve,
and certainly they do.

Long ago we searched for truth
and shined our light on what confused,
before the paid science journal,
before knowledge became profit,
before funding controlled the youth,
and the livings of those who’d dare to muse.

Long ago we made an honest living
and payed a hard days work
before the fuzzy math arrived
and set the family berserk.

Mom and dad both, two jobs
pursuing the Atlantean dream,
happy to work but failing
to make even simple ends meet.

Her last real vacation,
August 15th, 1972,
before the taking of nation
and the end of blue.

We used to go and play outside,
before the neon glow of phones
and the spider web’s rape
and capture of our hearts and jones.

Blinded by dopamine,
we missed the cracks above
and now Atlantis is doomed,
yet, there are bunkers–
just not for us.

Tears to Pay

What matters if we stop these bells,
—the toll and knell of guns and bombs,
the monstrous groan of metal wheels
the murmur of a boy gurgling on hope
before his breath is smothered out,
if we cannot quench the thirst of bureaucracy?

No body count will do for them
what neatly folded flag and flowers can
when mere youth is cast off to bloody war.

No, the bodies lie just as they are meant—
to coat and oil the tracks of greed,
to feed the machine that only leads to death.

The clatter of metallic rapid fire
has nothing on the cost of this:
our lives the fodder of the rich.

The poor go off to the old heroic war,
—always have, stoic in their rugged deaths,
stoic in their simple cut for the day,
with wages to pay the undertaker
and tears to pay the debt collector.

Amending Our Heads Into The Sand

Never let ideas die,
not with a man
be it Hitler’s one master race
or Luther’s dream for you
to be measured
by your content of character–

If dreams do die,
and we let them,
a father died
for you to forget him,
a mother fought for her
and her daughter’s right to live
as happy servants to men,
like two good Cinderella’s content
to live old testament,
as if we never moved forward
and still took the advice of a book
over the lesson
and the pain of living on Earth.

If dreams do die,
and we let them,
than our armies are dead
and since bled out to hide the truth–
that freedom is fleeting
while some will do their best to win
in a battle to use others as bread,
as salt, as bills to line their balls
and make themselves above our bones,
imbedded deep in the East Room
as if constitutions were written as jokes
and you haven’t the memory to end
the madness of amending our roots,
our truth, our head into the sand.

Where have the Lilacs Gone

Where have the lilacs gone?
Are they with the belladonna
that bloomed when we were young,
before the truth was known,
before the side effects,
before the taking of remedies?

I lived in a Victorian house,
a suburb house, with lawn
and trees and fence to match.

My youth was common as the grass,
but Gram’s was of German decent
and from hers I had grown,
and could see how nation’s give-up
or would if following that course

Oh Brother, my brother
how could you turn your back
and shove a man into that fire?

Was it the swell in the streets
when they made Poland so bad
or was it when they sold justifications
so smoothly you couldn’t just laugh.

Still, I have to get back to the flowers,
because one morning they will burn,
and embers will once again leap,
devouring human empathy,
and from then on a lilac may not symbolize love,
but blood, blood will always be blood.

Where do I begin

Where do I begin,
what words will convince you
that a knowledge of history
is not a conspiracy
and that no matter the cause
slick words cannot bring back
kids murdered and maimed by men
in search of profits and oil.

Truth, as written
by winners and their right hands,
is that democracy is the best way,
so children get mowed over
as we’re busy celebrating the 4th
and the shape of our lawns.

The Ponzi and the Poor

I know that I usually post poetry, but as of yet I haven’t quite the words for the topic that I am about to tackle as least not in the form of a poem. Nevertheless, I do feel compelled to write.

The year was 1776, the Declaration of Independence was signed, and a symbol of American freedom was born. In that document written about the past the authors took the time to speak to the future, and it is these few lines that I believe are more telling about were we are than almost anything that I have ran across.

” –That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.–“

A design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is my hope here to show that there really is such a design. There was once a time when I did not have to knowledge that I am about to lay out and I was, when questioning the nature of the status quo, challenged by those who did not have an education system designed to teach them the workings of a global financial system, designed by those who profit most from it.

With the creation of the Federal Reserve and the privatization of the production of money, followed by the eventual, but final nail in the coffin, the abandonment of the gold standard our leaders have not only led us down a path that causes nothing but pain but also created the greatest Ponzi scheme ever known and knowingly did so because the more money they printed the more leverage had within the system.

To understand what I am talking about one has to realize that when the government needs money to cover the deficit they take out what is essentially a loan in the form of Treasury bills, notes, and bonds. But how does one pay off a dollar borrowed when they do not have the money to pay of the previous dollar borrowed? You print another dollar of course. This is where the first step to taking over the world begins. If governments can produce their own money then there is no debt, as one cannot owe themselves, so you have to first get rid of the ability for government to produce money. Once you have created a private federal reserve, and cleverly name it as if it was a government organization, you then have to borrow money from this private origination, plus interest, (ignoring that governments can do this without the middle man). Now that you have borrowed (had a dollar printed) and agreed to pay back more than you borrowed, you are going to need to borrow again to cover the debt, as you cannot possibly pay back more money than exists without, of coarse, printing more.

So money is printed, debt is created, investors are found, but who buys debt that will never be paid? Why countries that want to devaluate their own “dollar” to make it so that it is more profitable for companies to run their businesses out of their nations. Low buying power is a nice way of saying in industry that people of this or that country are so poor that they will work simply to feed themselves. Would they over throw their own governments if they could understand that their leaders are actively involved in devaluating their own currencies to ensure indentured servitude of their peoples?

We in west though, we surely are not having our our dollar devaluated buy the purchasing of debt that will never be paid, so this system (though reprehensible) appears to be good for the USA because as long as someone is buying the debt we get to keep printing. But what if someone used funny fuzzy math to calculate inflation over the years to ensure that wages did not go up, that social security stayed low, and the benefits paid would be minimal? Same situation, just not as bad as being stuck in say China. Who wins? The world banks that get paid back all of this interest in a system they silently implemented to take control of the whole worlds economy.

This is the abuse, the design, that has reduced us to where we are now, and not just us the whole worlds economy is based on this Ponzi scheme that causes death and suffering untold and uncountable around the world, and the Declaration of Independence a document written about the past, directed to the future, stands as reminder of what should be done.

Bent and Broken

Neither mother, maiden, nor crowne
can morn more the passing of this nation
than babe taken or husband to war,
or love that’s belated and lost forever more.

Beat down brother, father, and son
can no more face the promise of sundown
and the ceasefire before the terror of morn,
and the return to menial work is war
on all but those who lack what could be soul.

We need a return to more simple times,
tech has broken the democratic mold
and left us as 1’s and 0’s to die
in the waste basket of fools chasing gold
while laboring bent and broken for coal.

What Talent We Once Had

What talent we once had
What vengeance we once took
what labor we once made

There was once wondrous music here,
more than empty words and rhythms
a magic now so elusive
we long for the old American Pie,
before the music truly died.

Remember Lenon and his words,
how he sang so eloquently
‘that your still fucking peasants
as far as I can see,’
and dream of a time when Dylan
begged to not ‘block up the halls,’
or when ‘the words of prophets echoed
in song and not just the subway walls.

What talent we once had;
what music we have lost to greed.
The Tools and Rage Against The Machine
now drifting off to sleep
with what vengeance we once had
and the labor we once had made
to keep our freedom to think.

Hero

He’s nobody’s hero,
the man that wakes at dawn,
bagger that packs your bags
’till swoll’ with groceries.

Not a chiseled statue
or actor made the same,
who takes his role as reality.
He’s nobody’s hero,
Nor does he want to be.

He wants to feed his family
and live out his life with glee,
but he must be a hero
and face the daily plague,
because there is no tomorrow
without the risks of today.

Build Back Better

Do not believe bankers, princes,
or governments; for all their wealth,
glittering gold, and grasping at control,
they haven’t ended suffering
or slowed the march of scolding sun
through Earth’s newest closing curtain call.

There are folks so evil
they would stranglehold a child
or dangle slogans like carrots,
while building a better A-bomb.

We have reached the threshold
where backs can bear no more,
but beware the man who says he’ll fix it
by adding just one more boulder
to the masses as we build back better than before.

Please Don’t Send Flowers

He passed away today—
or was it days ago,
I have not the strength to tell.
Anymore, the rose’s petal’s say
what my words could never:
don’t send me more flowers—
please don’t affix a card to the lilies,
because I have relived his death
with each wilting lily
and cried more often then a rose in molt.

Two Truths

Oh, Khafre would you tell the truth?
Was it you who removed Anubis
from the rough paws that soothed the world
when all lost souls would need the weighing scale.
Oh, Khafre how does your heart weigh today;
would you still chisel at the Jackal’s face
and try yourself in the Hall of Two Truths?
Oh, Khafre centuries erode the hips,
faceless Anubis cannot welcome the dead,
nor can the modern historian’s pen.
Today, the lies threaten more than the head,
as corrupt historians make case to government
and threaten our ability to see
and be made wise to the sleeping of truth
that’s been since Anubis’s nose was lost
to man’s ageless need to make himself God
or something like it within his lil’ field.

Guidance Systems

Divisions unite us:
The righteous verses all
who dare to dream on false idol
or care to see such figures
flung with giggles into the sea.

And this is it,
we build fences from boards
that look each like the last,
never deviating
and ignoring the cracks,

And there is not one group
who has not developed in this way.
Divisions unite us,
and the heathen’s give cause for change.
Build a better bomb to beckon our cause!
Computers and silicon chips
are just an afterthought
of guidance systems bettering their odd.

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