Aung sang for what I was born with
--United colors of democracy
Her song still echoes through
the canopy of lofty inalienable rights.
--Rangoon understory absorbs blood
rich with vibrant young revolution.
Goddamn bitter.
The jungle throbs with throaty pulse
hiding lives abandoned by their own.
--I fought for nothing and am awarded
heaped on my lap, piles of freedom,
comfort in knowing martial law wont
apply to me, as other laws do not.
--How can I seal in an envelope
freedom, the excess, the surplus
at the end of the month i never used.
can i not pass it on? i must throw it
away unused, abused, refused.
I'm waiting for those millions
those souls to come out of the jungle
to light of day and comfort
with pride in their beautiful country.
Hold those hands of those children
who watched humans become animal,
sing them to sleep with sweet words.
Continue to seek their future,
continue to seek your past.
Scream your strife at the top of your lungs
until others around you know of your present.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
spring break
I miss spring break
taking only one class
and that class is
-in my head.
Type type type
to pass this class
internet necessary.
spring break is next
-week
i wont even feel it
pass me by.
it will be just another
unproductive week
oh spring break
what will i break from?
not this monotony.
i need something new
something brand spanking new.
show yourself
and lets break spring
taking only one class
and that class is
-in my head.
Type type type
to pass this class
internet necessary.
spring break is next
-week
i wont even feel it
pass me by.
it will be just another
unproductive week
oh spring break
what will i break from?
not this monotony.
i need something new
something brand spanking new.
show yourself
and lets break spring
Thursday, February 25, 2010
That Country
I am a soldier for love.
Love, the all engulfing continent spread north to south and east to west, floating just above subconscious. That country whom all call home. That country whose flags wave day in, day out, in tact or battered, striped, checkered, sometimes surrendered. Pride and shame and patriotic idiotic chagrin blame their claim to fame namelessly on this coast to coast motherland fatherland brother sister Loverland.
The army the armed forces going up against all those who hate who cannot love. Most volunteer, most scribble their drunken mark dotted across contracts, drunk from such pheromones and hormones or love and lust. They don such feeble tin hats and helmets and guns loaded with kindness not bullets that make ribbons of flesh and shreds of hope; these do not protect them as confidently they- the army- those soldiers for love- make their haggard way through rejections and unforeseen breakups and worse of all worse than death loves unrequited. Though unprotected and as naked to the world as their birth they- the army- vulnerable as ever forge through swamps and quagmires to graveyards whose cup hath runneth over of broken souls and tents pitched by shards of bones. Dismal and dismaying as it can be those sunny-side-up soldiers for love trudge through to promise lands known and unknown painted for them by Optimism.
I was not as willing in my headlong foray into Love and her foreign bosom. Never detached nor ignorant of her pacifist presence only justifiably cautious when wading in such deep waters off her shallow shores. Though being born human with no permission requested I too at that exact moment was born in Love, always within her borders no matter how far around or from Earth I traveled, always a citizen a denizen a reluctant representative of Love. Some volunteer, some are drafted. I never had the luxury of drunken logic at my side to sign my mark for me with no cowardice no regret only false confidence.
Then one day saw her and in one instant my existence was explained to me in everything but words and as a grace note at the footnote of that instant she was gone forever invisible in the fuzzy static of this horrible nation. No I was drafted or dragged rather to be sized and measured for my own personal journey to the Promise Land that Elysium that paper mache meadow full of construction paper poppies. I fit a tin helmet and was wished well as Love at first sight pulled me sank me hand in lead-heavy hand to the depths of complete abyss filled to the brim of nothingness. Near me comrades of complicated destinies and dismantled concupiscence wait unbelieving tethered to the bottom of an empty ocean for the utterly unlikely. They too- those soldiers of love- clutching their kindness loaded guns all too trigger happy wait for their one instant to replay itself a glitch in a blip on a radar. Some old some very young and some like me neither old nor very young but evenly displaced in this time line.
I waited what could have been years or days for that ghostly figure to saunter down like star dust scraped from a meteor in a night sky, starkly contrasting. I was drafted to fight for Love- to soldier on though on leads no where or everywhere. I waded, I sloshed through morass after morass before I waited those cold years or days for my instant to come rushing back to me. Just when I thought it was over I was overwhelmed that my weightless waiting was fulfilled to fruition. As she sauntered from heaven or hell I clutched the hem of her sundress and all was illuminated as I was pulled north to Salvation to the Promise Land promised so long ago. As I looked below my dangling feet the sallow faces I neighbored grew dimmer as they looked not at me but past me to the heavens or to hell for their star dust star-crossed lover to settle on them. Promised land is barren without vehement passion and love so intense the grass grows itself. On closer inspection the paper mache hills flowed in the breeze covered in soft bristles of hair-like grass greener than green. The flowers wept sweet nectar scents and attracted the eye with arrogant efficiency.
Destiny has no home in the swirling chaos created by such a clever universe to confuse and capture logics and realities and most misunderstood of all- truths. Truths defined by other truths smaller or larger truths brick by brick backing the enormity of consciousness impenetrable. Truth is destined to be homeless if destiny were true blue. Eye there is the rub when I locked blue eye to green eye I knew my destiny and backed it up with those bricks of truths. My destiny was this singularity in the anomaly of truth the enigma of our chaotic cosmos swinging like an out of synch pendulum waiting to finally match everyone's ticks and tocks. This green eyed sun dressed nebula floating into my life unannounced and leaving it ripping every bone and muscle with her. Such swift segues enter stage right exit stage left must be written somewhere, they are truths can they too be destinies or are they mutually exclusive mutually elusive phenomena never to be explained? No- that truth spelled the destiny like two magnets ready to mate north to south and that destiny clarified the truth. My soul my promise lands promised so vaguely at the beginning the ends to my means awaits me across those barren battle fields splintered with lost causes and givings up. Hand in air-light hand we skipped from one day to the next like stepping stones to the doors of endless time infinity never registering through the filter of burning adoration immortal.
However you find yourself in the army- the armed forces for Love- you are soldiers defending That Undeserving Country; utterly without reproach. Yet millions of immigrants and emigrants and pilgrims on one-way sojourns find themselves drying on her shores.
Love, the all engulfing continent spread north to south and east to west, floating just above subconscious. That country whom all call home. That country whose flags wave day in, day out, in tact or battered, striped, checkered, sometimes surrendered. Pride and shame and patriotic idiotic chagrin blame their claim to fame namelessly on this coast to coast motherland fatherland brother sister Loverland.
The army the armed forces going up against all those who hate who cannot love. Most volunteer, most scribble their drunken mark dotted across contracts, drunk from such pheromones and hormones or love and lust. They don such feeble tin hats and helmets and guns loaded with kindness not bullets that make ribbons of flesh and shreds of hope; these do not protect them as confidently they- the army- those soldiers for love- make their haggard way through rejections and unforeseen breakups and worse of all worse than death loves unrequited. Though unprotected and as naked to the world as their birth they- the army- vulnerable as ever forge through swamps and quagmires to graveyards whose cup hath runneth over of broken souls and tents pitched by shards of bones. Dismal and dismaying as it can be those sunny-side-up soldiers for love trudge through to promise lands known and unknown painted for them by Optimism.
I was not as willing in my headlong foray into Love and her foreign bosom. Never detached nor ignorant of her pacifist presence only justifiably cautious when wading in such deep waters off her shallow shores. Though being born human with no permission requested I too at that exact moment was born in Love, always within her borders no matter how far around or from Earth I traveled, always a citizen a denizen a reluctant representative of Love. Some volunteer, some are drafted. I never had the luxury of drunken logic at my side to sign my mark for me with no cowardice no regret only false confidence.
Then one day saw her and in one instant my existence was explained to me in everything but words and as a grace note at the footnote of that instant she was gone forever invisible in the fuzzy static of this horrible nation. No I was drafted or dragged rather to be sized and measured for my own personal journey to the Promise Land that Elysium that paper mache meadow full of construction paper poppies. I fit a tin helmet and was wished well as Love at first sight pulled me sank me hand in lead-heavy hand to the depths of complete abyss filled to the brim of nothingness. Near me comrades of complicated destinies and dismantled concupiscence wait unbelieving tethered to the bottom of an empty ocean for the utterly unlikely. They too- those soldiers of love- clutching their kindness loaded guns all too trigger happy wait for their one instant to replay itself a glitch in a blip on a radar. Some old some very young and some like me neither old nor very young but evenly displaced in this time line.
I waited what could have been years or days for that ghostly figure to saunter down like star dust scraped from a meteor in a night sky, starkly contrasting. I was drafted to fight for Love- to soldier on though on leads no where or everywhere. I waded, I sloshed through morass after morass before I waited those cold years or days for my instant to come rushing back to me. Just when I thought it was over I was overwhelmed that my weightless waiting was fulfilled to fruition. As she sauntered from heaven or hell I clutched the hem of her sundress and all was illuminated as I was pulled north to Salvation to the Promise Land promised so long ago. As I looked below my dangling feet the sallow faces I neighbored grew dimmer as they looked not at me but past me to the heavens or to hell for their star dust star-crossed lover to settle on them. Promised land is barren without vehement passion and love so intense the grass grows itself. On closer inspection the paper mache hills flowed in the breeze covered in soft bristles of hair-like grass greener than green. The flowers wept sweet nectar scents and attracted the eye with arrogant efficiency.
Destiny has no home in the swirling chaos created by such a clever universe to confuse and capture logics and realities and most misunderstood of all- truths. Truths defined by other truths smaller or larger truths brick by brick backing the enormity of consciousness impenetrable. Truth is destined to be homeless if destiny were true blue. Eye there is the rub when I locked blue eye to green eye I knew my destiny and backed it up with those bricks of truths. My destiny was this singularity in the anomaly of truth the enigma of our chaotic cosmos swinging like an out of synch pendulum waiting to finally match everyone's ticks and tocks. This green eyed sun dressed nebula floating into my life unannounced and leaving it ripping every bone and muscle with her. Such swift segues enter stage right exit stage left must be written somewhere, they are truths can they too be destinies or are they mutually exclusive mutually elusive phenomena never to be explained? No- that truth spelled the destiny like two magnets ready to mate north to south and that destiny clarified the truth. My soul my promise lands promised so vaguely at the beginning the ends to my means awaits me across those barren battle fields splintered with lost causes and givings up. Hand in air-light hand we skipped from one day to the next like stepping stones to the doors of endless time infinity never registering through the filter of burning adoration immortal.
However you find yourself in the army- the armed forces for Love- you are soldiers defending That Undeserving Country; utterly without reproach. Yet millions of immigrants and emigrants and pilgrims on one-way sojourns find themselves drying on her shores.
A Parable of Proof
Man went to prove God one day.
That day, three changes occurred:
changes spiritual
changes mental and
changes physical.
He gathered his gadgets and instruments of science and
headed into natures bosom.
She welcomed him warmly at first; she didn't ind being poked and scanned.
She even waited patiently as he scraped samples for traces of God.
Knowing God wouldn't be too easy to find—he went deeper into her cradle,
the further he got, the colder her welcome.
Soon, as they say, he went native, his tools of science stopped working so
he had to rely on his bare mind. His senses became intense, on fire.
The world around him was illuminated, they became one.
More animal than man, he continued his search for his God, every day
growing closer. He started using more than his mind to search for proof,
he used his soul. Man's spiritual metamorphosis.
As he slept peacefully under the stars, above the insects, among the flora,
his dream invited him to a cliffs edge overlooking the vast ocean.
Another man, old as the cliff, beckoned him to join the view.
They two sat and admired the incredible vista before them, the old man
introduced himself as the architect of their current panorama.
I'm in the company of God, questioned Man.
You're in the company of everything, he said.
But you're he who created creation, Man interrogated.
So they say, I was merely there early enough to witness it, he said, most call me God.
Prove it, Man requested.
I can not prove faith, he muttered.
You're God you can do anything, Man demanded.
Very well, draw a map of the air, for me, and I will prove faith.
That's impossible, it's forever changing and incredibly difficult to see, said Man.
And faith is different, asked the old man.
I suppose you're right, however, I am sitting here speaking to you, Man mused.
Is that not proof enough, asked the old man.
Merely evidence, I am an atheist and a man of science, unless I have tangible proof, I will remain atheist.
It took me a while to believe in Man, honestly—For the longest time I truly didn't think he existed. Said the old man.
You created us, of course you knew-
I witnessed, remember, and so many things happened that day you got lost in the milieu.
Do you believe in Man now, asked Man.
I have evidence, the old man winked and was gone.
Man lay in his slumber till morning, he rose with the sun and marched back to civilization.
He was pleased to have found the proof he needed, he would be nominated for awards and be published world wide! Glory will forever fall on his name.
Upon leaving the woods, he found his tools of science and tried to get them working again.
As he was toying with a probe, he slipped on a rock, knocked his head hard, and forgot everything
that happened.
That day, three changes occurred:
changes spiritual
changes mental and
changes physical.
He gathered his gadgets and instruments of science and
headed into natures bosom.
She welcomed him warmly at first; she didn't ind being poked and scanned.
She even waited patiently as he scraped samples for traces of God.
Knowing God wouldn't be too easy to find—he went deeper into her cradle,
the further he got, the colder her welcome.
Soon, as they say, he went native, his tools of science stopped working so
he had to rely on his bare mind. His senses became intense, on fire.
The world around him was illuminated, they became one.
More animal than man, he continued his search for his God, every day
growing closer. He started using more than his mind to search for proof,
he used his soul. Man's spiritual metamorphosis.
As he slept peacefully under the stars, above the insects, among the flora,
his dream invited him to a cliffs edge overlooking the vast ocean.
Another man, old as the cliff, beckoned him to join the view.
They two sat and admired the incredible vista before them, the old man
introduced himself as the architect of their current panorama.
I'm in the company of God, questioned Man.
You're in the company of everything, he said.
But you're he who created creation, Man interrogated.
So they say, I was merely there early enough to witness it, he said, most call me God.
Prove it, Man requested.
I can not prove faith, he muttered.
You're God you can do anything, Man demanded.
Very well, draw a map of the air, for me, and I will prove faith.
That's impossible, it's forever changing and incredibly difficult to see, said Man.
And faith is different, asked the old man.
I suppose you're right, however, I am sitting here speaking to you, Man mused.
Is that not proof enough, asked the old man.
Merely evidence, I am an atheist and a man of science, unless I have tangible proof, I will remain atheist.
It took me a while to believe in Man, honestly—For the longest time I truly didn't think he existed. Said the old man.
You created us, of course you knew-
I witnessed, remember, and so many things happened that day you got lost in the milieu.
Do you believe in Man now, asked Man.
I have evidence, the old man winked and was gone.
Man lay in his slumber till morning, he rose with the sun and marched back to civilization.
He was pleased to have found the proof he needed, he would be nominated for awards and be published world wide! Glory will forever fall on his name.
Upon leaving the woods, he found his tools of science and tried to get them working again.
As he was toying with a probe, he slipped on a rock, knocked his head hard, and forgot everything
that happened.
Zodiac
If I were the water
I’d go far away away
I’d go deep and deep
I’d go high high in the sky
But because I’m water
I come back back
In all forms to you
I will wash your shores
And bathe your hills and peaks
I will pour through your valleys
And seep deep into your surface
No matter how far far
I go deep deep
You know I will always return
And cycle once again.
I’d go far away away
I’d go deep and deep
I’d go high high in the sky
But because I’m water
I come back back
In all forms to you
I will wash your shores
And bathe your hills and peaks
I will pour through your valleys
And seep deep into your surface
No matter how far far
I go deep deep
You know I will always return
And cycle once again.
Nightmare On Elm Street
While they tell us to look up
at the sixth floor's breezy open window
they frame our perception
of that much larger painting before us
No—we shout no!
Who framed whom that winter day
We will excuse our naivety
forever lost in perjury
Check the knoll and check the frame
for who framed whom that winter day
We framed ourselves!
Please, I beg you people, look up!
Forget what you think
you heard you saw you know, look up!
No—we shout no!
You have only the sixth floor window story.
The witness's eyes twenty twenty
and certainly the eyes were plenty
And the viewers at home, we're sorry,
you have only the sixth floor window story.
Name after name with links and ties
to government departments relying on lies
FBI and CIA of course have nothing to say
when real questions are asked about that day.
Ask not what your country will do to you
Cause even if you asked you'd get no truth.
But what you can do for your country?
Accept the bread we're fed while watching the circus.
No—we shout no!
You heard three shots and echoes
He hit the road Jack
He wont come back.
Stop your crying and choke your woes
You heard three shots and echoes.
at the sixth floor's breezy open window
they frame our perception
of that much larger painting before us
No—we shout no!
Who framed whom that winter day
We will excuse our naivety
forever lost in perjury
Check the knoll and check the frame
for who framed whom that winter day
We framed ourselves!
Please, I beg you people, look up!
Forget what you think
you heard you saw you know, look up!
No—we shout no!
You have only the sixth floor window story.
The witness's eyes twenty twenty
and certainly the eyes were plenty
And the viewers at home, we're sorry,
you have only the sixth floor window story.
Name after name with links and ties
to government departments relying on lies
FBI and CIA of course have nothing to say
when real questions are asked about that day.
Ask not what your country will do to you
Cause even if you asked you'd get no truth.
But what you can do for your country?
Accept the bread we're fed while watching the circus.
No—we shout no!
You heard three shots and echoes
He hit the road Jack
He wont come back.
Stop your crying and choke your woes
You heard three shots and echoes.
I Hate the Color Gray
Those tears roll down
cheeks still hot from crying;
washing my face like
rain on leaves in a
dusty July.
Rediscovering green
Tears that tear nothing
from nothing. Like fringe
from notebook paper.
Just fodder for a stop
motion blizzard
That comes eye level.
Paper hearts leave
paper trails that no one
will sweep for you
so make sure yours
is not origami
'Cause paper cuts hurt.
Imagine hating the color
Gray and no one asking why.
when such a passive
I-never-did-nothing-to-nobody
color creeped to the shit list.
Only coming close
still wont do and wont
satisfy my lackluster lust
for God doesn't even know
what.
I found myself yelling
at clouds emptier than
anything yet full enough
to pour in all the wrong places
at all the wrong times.
That trick of light keeping
things in the mirror may be
closer than they appear
dancing across cathedrals
in rainbow incandescent
sprees exploding
imploding coral reefs
of schools of fish
just out of college
to be out of reach with
what this world
expects of you
and of me.
Expect nothing...
cheeks still hot from crying;
washing my face like
rain on leaves in a
dusty July.
Rediscovering green
Tears that tear nothing
from nothing. Like fringe
from notebook paper.
Just fodder for a stop
motion blizzard
That comes eye level.
Paper hearts leave
paper trails that no one
will sweep for you
so make sure yours
is not origami
'Cause paper cuts hurt.
Imagine hating the color
Gray and no one asking why.
when such a passive
I-never-did-nothing-to-nobody
color creeped to the shit list.
Only coming close
still wont do and wont
satisfy my lackluster lust
for God doesn't even know
what.
I found myself yelling
at clouds emptier than
anything yet full enough
to pour in all the wrong places
at all the wrong times.
That trick of light keeping
things in the mirror may be
closer than they appear
dancing across cathedrals
in rainbow incandescent
sprees exploding
imploding coral reefs
of schools of fish
just out of college
to be out of reach with
what this world
expects of you
and of me.
Expect nothing...
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