Tag Archives: iconoclasm

Rock the Casbah

In one sense, as the Casbah rocks,
it merely sways on concrete blocks
that buried deep beneath the sand
give history its strength to stand;

and its foundations, built of steel
and solid rock, can barely feel
the tremors from such surface noise
cranked out by grown men and young boys

who think to change the world, but fail,
forgetting it takes years for shale
to yield to pressure, making oil
there miles beneath the fertile soil.

In one sense, as the Casbah crowd
believes the hype thats blast so loud
across the endless sea of sand,
it neither will evolve or stand

for anything beyond its press,
just fade to nothing, more or less,
converting substance into style,
then neatly sorted to some file:

the “where are they”, “what happened to”,
brought out of mothballs for their due
at some parade where they are mocked
by those who never knew they rocked.

10 APR 2007

Share This:

What You Do Not Seek

Assuming you don’t write your own,
whose poetry assumes your voice
and would, with no small arrogance,
usurp the words that form your world?

Assuming that you do not play,
whose music fills your waiting ears
and would displace the silence there
with its own song and not your own?

Assuming that you do not dance,
whose rhythm would inform your bones
and chart your course across the stage,
its curtain drawn upon your birth?

Assuming that you’d dedicate
your years to some creative spark
should it make obvious itself
and fill with purpose your short life,

what makes you think it cares to wait
while you stand silent in the wings,
content to sing another’s song,
wasting your breath on other’s words,

or learning some odd stranger’s dance?
What good is that to a small spark
that seeks a kindling dried and gnarled,
not soaked through with another’s sweat.

Assuming you are not your own,
whose god have you imagined yours,
that will appear somehow at length
to give you what you do not seek?

27 NOV 2006

Share This:

What’s the Point?

What’s the point? I want to ask
the Mormons on their bikes,
who leave their own nice neighborhoods
to share the view they like
that they are sure contains the answers
to what’s wrong with us,
and don’t mind spending hours
on the front porch. We discuss
the book they’re peddling, free of charge,
the origins of man,
how God moves in an unseen way,
while we do what we can.

Their exposition on their faith
leaves me, at length, unmoved;
while my opinion on the universe
remains unproved,
at least, to them, because my book
has either not been writ,
or none have yet to take a look,
or maybe, it’s bullshit.

My entire life has been like that:
I understand their plight;
despite my great attempts to speak out
where I think I’m right,
the bottom line is no one listens;
no one gives a damn;
the world wants nothing of the truth,
and who I think I am
to people out there, on the streets,
is of no great concern.
They’d neither light a fire to warm me,
nor piss so I’ll not burn.

So in the end, who gives a f**k
about some grand design,
about nirvana or great bliss,
my neighborhood’s, or mine?
F**k new ideas, f**k advance,
f**k thinking for yourself;
f**k listening to the cosmic dance,
f**k those books on your shelves.
F**k gurus, mantra, holy books,
f**k pilgrimmage and prayer,
f**k hours of meditation,
f**k all gods who aren’t there.

F**k cities, f**k the small towns, too;
f**k hypocrites and saints;
f**k those who swear there’s something else,
f**k those who say there ain’t.

F**k friends who never call,
and those who won’t leave you alone;
f**k every last iconoclast,
f**k every single clone,
f**k me, and then go f**k yourself
and when you’re finished there
f**k those too f**ked to give a damn
and f**k those left who care.

‘Cause what’s the point? You live,
you die — that’s it this time around?
A sack of meat that keeps a pulse?
That doesn’t seem profound
enough to build religions on,
or claim some higher cause;
why bother with psychiatry
to correct minor flaws
when the whole purpose seems to be
just feed and breed and die,
and in between kill off those
who don’t like your reason why.

F**k war. F**k peace.
F**k those who think
that either one can fix
a world where children are shot down
by raving lunatics.
F**k newscasts, f**k those on-the-scene
reports that never say
each one of us played some small part
in how we got this way.
F**k schools, if all they try to teach
is how to get along,
the best fraternity to join,
or how to load a bong.
F**k infancy, f**k youth,
and you can f**k the middle aged,
who somehow act as if they’ve turned
to some important page
of life, and yet prize youth and beauty;
as if they’re still there,
despite the fat around their waists
and gray now in their hair.
F**k getting old and being old,
used up and of no use
except to buy up scooter chairs
and suck down carrot juice.

F**k Democrats, Republicans
and anyone who spouts
it’s not their fault the world is f**ked
or they’ve got a way out.

‘Cause what’s the point, I ask
because I’d really like to know;
I’d like to teach the world to sing
and tell it what I know
Not because “it’s my duty,
for the Bible tells me so,”
but because it seems so pointless
to just live, and go,
without affecting anyone,
or causing them to think
about the reasons that we’re here,
and why in this small blink
that is human existence,
why we bother to believe,
and when no one will listen
why the thinking man must grieve.

08 OCT 2006

Share This:

All Those Who’re Lost

All those who’re lost aren’t there from wandering;
some are asleep, and dream of squandering
times and places they’ve not been,
describing wonders they’ve not seen.

All those who’re lost aren’t there by accident;
some choose confusion, it’s self-evident.
They take for granted the status quo
and make decisions to make it so.

All those who’re lost don’t want to be found;
it’s too familiar, their common ground,
the box they dare not step an inch outside:
public opinion and their own sad pride.

All those who’re lost aren’t there from wandering;
just left behind from the army’s plundering
that made a wasteland left in its wake,
its former glories, its grand mistakes.

All those who’re lost aren’t seeking out
an answer to remove all doubt;
they’re building walls to try and close it in:
the truth of where they are and where they’ve been.

All those who’re lost don’t want a map,
unless it puts the world right in their lap;
it’s too much effort to reach the end
and find out you’ve got to begin again.

All those who’re lost aren’t there from wand’ring;
some are asleep, and dream of squandering
times and places they’ve not been,
describing wonders they’ve not seen.

03 AUG 2006

Share This:

If You Want Love

My father was an upright man who never went to church;
but he gave his word and that was that, he’d help you from a lurch.
He hated all self-righteousness and practiced what he’d preach;
when I asked him what made the good life he’d give me this speech:

Live as if there’s no hereafter if you want a Heaven here on earth;
Spend as if it’s your last dollar if you want to get your money’s worth;
Act like everyone knows something that it might be worthwhile to learn;
Love as if the world is ending if you want love in return.

My father died ten years ago; we laid him in the ground.
I don’t think anyone expected he’d be Heaven-bound.
When I think back on how he lived, I have to crack a smile
imagining their faces when they look in his file
and it says:

Live as if there’s no hereafter if you want a Heaven here on earth;
Spend as if it’s your last dollar if you want to get your money’s worth;
Act like everyone knows something that it might be worthwhile to learn;
Love as if the world is ending if you want love in return.

Someday may be good enough for some folks, he would say;
but if you want to change the world you’d better start today …

Live as if there’s no hereafter if you want a Heaven here on earth;
Spend as if it’s your last dollar if you want to get your money’s worth;
Act like everyone knows something that it might be worthwhile to learn;
Love as if the world is ending if you want love in return.

17 MAR 2006

Share This:

Wide Open Road

For some reason, I’m in a shit-kicking mood today. All my ducks are in a row, and I’m feeling my oats. Could be because it’s a beautiful warm spring day with a slight breeze and plenty of sunshine. Could be because it’s Friday. Could be just because.

Anyway, here’s a song I wrote about being your own man, finding your own road, and not listening to any crap along the way. What’s that Jeff Bates says? If you don’t feel like turning it up, it’s not a real country song.

WIDE OPEN ROAD any direction I choose
Shakin’ off this town like an old pair of shoes
Like my old man told me, you’ve got to use it or lose
And if the man don’t call you brother,
don’t give him your membership dues

WIDE OPEN ROAD and no kind of a plan
Shakin’ off these blues like I don’t give a damn
Just like my wife done told me, you’ve got to get it in gear
And if you’ve got no direction,
better bring it on back here

Two lanes is all I need, the right to cruise or to pass
Don’t need no big city news, don’t bother shakin’ your ass
You can tell my friends I’m trying to lighten my load
They can find me out there somewhere on the WIDE OPEN ROAD.

WIDE OPEN ROAD with nothing blocking my sight
Shakin’ out of my skin, just like I told you I might
Just like some folks try to tell you, they say you’ve got to keep your place
Well, if you feel like you’re under the wheel,
there ain’t no smile on your face

WIDE OPEN ROAD and nothing out there for miles
Shakin’ off my past like I was shredding my file
Just like the old man told me, sometimes you’ve got to move on
And you can give better answers
if they show up and you’re long gone.

Two lanes is all I need, the right to stop if I choose
Don’t try to slow me down with your big city news
You can tell my friends I’m trying to lighten my load
They can find me out there somewhere on the WIDE OPEN ROAD.

Spring 1998

Share This:

Play the Game

At some point, it doesn’t matter
if your bank account gets fatter
or you end up with the most expensive toys,
always playing at high roller
with illusions of control or
desperate attempts at mirrors, smoke and noise.

Despite all your wealth and power,
you won’t get another hour more
because you bought your way into the park.
Once the lights go down, it’s finished;
both the stage and crowd diminish,
and we each go home alone and in the dark.

And still we play the game,
thinking that we know the score,
thinking we can beat the odds,
thinking we deserve much more.
Doesn’t matter, win or lose:
they’re really pretty much the same.
What’s important is the way
We each decide to play the game.

Yes, the spotlight’s glare is fleeting;
in the center ring, competing
for a prize that fades before you make it home,
fighting for a piece of nothing
’cause it’s better sometimes bluffing
than to face it and remain a great unknown

but the time doesn’t go quicker,
despite some expensive liquor
or the company of fast and fancy friends;
the same minutes turn to hours,
like seeds slowly sprout to flowers
and then die and just the same begin again.

And still we play the game,
thinking that we know the score,
thinking we can beat the odds,
thinking we deserve much more.
Doesn’t matter, win or lose:
they’re really pretty much the same.
What’s important is the way
We each decide to play the game.

06 NOV 2006

Share This: