Sunday, November 19, 2006

Dead Letters

Under the ledge at the bottom of nowhere, breeding, multiplying in archaic algebraic formulae of arcane irrelevance.
Under the ledge, where numbers are translated to sound, digitalism as a form of governance for a logically illiterate species.
The black hack sunrise would have you believe in evangelical hand-me-down prophetic fireworks; tenuous links between mind and body masquerading as spirit, chains of Markovian predictions that carry only the weight of theory and whose calculations are lost to tomorrow’s realities.
Stand in queues far divorced from geometric brilliance; patterns of bread crumb and dairy shortage curdled to bitter defeat.
Hand to mouth to mouth resuscitation.
Fly with the migrating hoards before the rising sea; refugee; refusenik; your family by your side and only your skills to keep them alive.
Eke out your existence in the mud of lost love; the haunted house of past denials.
Spectres of regret and phantoms of nostalgia vie for position on the ghost train of yesterday’s dreams: carry you home on the wings of tomorrow.
Man thing, woman thing - coded to survive; conditioned to fail.
Brown skinned children with doomsday eyes and piano-key ribs upon which to play charity’s ballad of dry wells and dead crops.
Exploiter and exploitee; a game to entertain those for whom entertainment is everything; reality on plasma or LCD.
Give, give, give.
Take, take, take.
Give and take.
Take me to your leader.
Give and take: the punch-line to a cosmic joke.
Tell me what I want to hear; listen to what I say and file it away in brackets and binders; letter-headed and lead-weighted; the machinations of egos and petty power plays; the covering of tracks and the cowering in cracks painted over with paperwork devised to protect and protract the incompetence of those who would be in charge.
Rise on the hope of changes that may spawn the evolution of thought and action.
Perhaps this vision darkly; this cold and analytical stare, will serve to prepare the lamb to flee the altar of the future.
Afraid of what cannot be changed or controlled; afraid of the changes to come.
Mindful of the folly of believing that all is inevitable.
Hope alone is a thin fabrication; a fa├žade that, when shattered, will cut deeper than the truth itself.
Therefore, Light fire and forge hope to anvil; wrestle the future from the voices of the media and the hands of the hollow men; quench it with action and words that do not repeat parrot-fashion the conditioned reflex; the perceived knowledge.
There is no bottom line; there is no line bar time.
There is no best or worst case scenario, no first strike policy, no last best hope, no axis or roadmap, no protocol, deal or accord, no election promise, no passport to peace, no gateway to the future, no convenient lie or bitter truth that can compensate for the lack of thought and heart exhibited by those who claim to speak for us.


gregrandgar said...

"I was just a child then/Now I'm only a man." Roger Waters, Amused to Death"

Despite our plethora of excuses, in defiance of them we know what we must do, and when we face our expectations of others, we cannot help but…

mullet said...

ja doll! (sorry, couldn't resist)

littlebitofsonshine said...

For once the more i read the more i cryed .Such a touching truth to bad this fight is the oldest one for the worker and the so called caring boss or leader .When the people are forgotten and dreams hade away hope wains till someone rises it again maybe one day we will learn to have respect true healthy and caring .But my hope is fading with the dream.
Be safe walk in peace allways for killing has never been the way nore has force that is what got us so many uncaring leaders i think