In Your Eyes

a note in one’s hand.
tucked away to be read again.
words to remind one of love.
a time before the world begin to boil.
when children were tucked into bed from above.
so much food children did not eat.
a time when children would rather have treats
than to eat a good dinner.

now years later i unfold this letter.
tucked in my pocket i re-read its warning.
i think of the life i have lived within.
how i have shut off from everything again.
turned a blind eye from all the death.
walked over bodies to seek food with less.
this letter was written before all of this.

now i can look back and read fully.
the warning that was told with love.
a father hoping to help guide and help steer.
even from death his words help make this clear.
as this was all predicted for many many decades.
even back then humanity struggled.
all the writing was on the wall.

but as soon as one wall fell another grew tall.
food and water did become scarce.
oil prices did rise over night as we drove from place to place.
vehicles were abandoned along the highways.
now used as shelters for plants and strays.
unemployment the norm everything closed down.
no one knew how to farm or use their hands.

clicking a mouse did not help grow real food on land.
the grid went down as the note did warn.
my father told me to take joy in the moment.
i now know we are the last generation.
no new children born into this once great nation.
i sit here on this mountain watching this sunrise.
the clouds are beautiful dad, as i think of your eyes.

A response to: Letter to the Last Generation

My Beloved Land

The job of a dictator isn’t that easy.
So I write this to help you understand.
I have to be tough and kick skulls and slap hands
As my people ask for their universal rights.
I throw them dollars while taking pills.
But there is no food or water left to borrow or steal.

Four decades later what do I see.
Lots of delusional youth looking up at me.
Poisoned by their psychedelic pop.
Not knowing that I’m all they’ve got.
I hear this nonsense of a war going on
I see adoring fans in my beloved land.

Like so many dictators before me.
I will leave this world as I see.
No amount of reality may you tell
And I will go to paradise as well.
Surrounded by all I have created here.
For an eternity this ground will swell.

For all the oil milked and shipped away.
For all the blood spilt here today.

Riding Fixies

All rights reserved by Farl

Sitting in our homes, blocked off in our foam
environment. Contained and reclaimed.
All physical friends long gone.
Memories from childhood gone wrong.
When we all drove our separate ways.
Relocating across country to follow our dreams.
Trying to stay in touch but it never seems
to happen, the way we want it to.

We all have now ventured online.
We all have built up our digital tribes.
Many collecting friends like pennies.
Hoarding them in bottles for hard times to cash in.
To shoot a tweet or message of a loss or a win.
There is a new generation that has only known this.
Has never known life before a text messaged hug or kiss.
And they do not question.
They have adapted and will reinvent.
They will find that the tribe they built has no limits.
Because they are tribe builders. Leaders of connection.

Paradigm shifted so quickly they knew no reflection
of how the good old days were before all of this.
They are geotagging their status updates as we reminisce.
They are blogging the next big invention. Are you listening?
Their tribes form and collapse at will with intention.
Passion depleted and grown as quickly as political campaigns.
Beliefs and hopes killed like terrorists’ bombs on planes.
The revolution will be on facebook. It will be liked and
shared on an iPad. Making a text message donation
to a cause or a fad.

Drinking beer, riding fixies while whistling dixie.

For the Greyhounds

cuts in education
cuts in healthcare
teachers need nothing
so let’s be fair.

let’s cut more jobs.
let’s take away trains.
let’s take away planes.
let’s cut the arts.

let’s cut all that makes us think and be smart.
let’s cut anything that helps us use our hearts.
let’s cut the cutters who create the cuts.
let’s cut all those high paying jobs for the poor.

after all that is what the middle class is for.
let’s cut the green jobs for our future.
dismantle the unions who hold our bleeding sutures.
let’s cut all of this and then cut some more.

for China will soon pass us their offering plate.
these cuts are far too late to the starting gate.
greyhounds can’t catch the rabbit who is long gone.
as the Terracotta Army waits patiently for its pawn.

Eleven from Twenty Seven

Round man stuffed holding his iPad to read.
Reading his made in China RSS feed.
Sits next to wife reading the paper.
Her face covered, no eyes to see.

Woman says, it says here China is winning.
Man says, not if I have anything to do with it.
Woman says, they will be number one soon.
She speaks out loud the simple math to gloom.

Eleven from twenty seven.
Eleven from twenty seven.
Why is this so hard for me to imagine.
Is it 13?

No deeeeear …… it is not.
Man mumbles while checking his stocks.
Both sitting and waiting for the doc.
You know the price of steak is too high.

I’m going to have to get me a good paying job.
There is no way we can keep eating like hogs.
China is winning it is easy to see.
Man catches imports from China like fleas.

Woman can’t do simple math to realize our demise.
She is worried because she will still be alive.
America is losing because of people like these.
So content to sit and be pleased.

The Dull City Upon the Hill

The shining city upon the hill
No lights anymore, no one paid the bill.
As it fought to borrow itself out from
The debt the hill was made of.

No more music filled the air.
Public broadcasting cut to be fair.
Education funding had become undone
No more public schools for children to learn.

No more NPR  that right wingers feared.
Lack of funding used as a tool to censor.
Conservatives have made all others indentured
To their God, their Bible and their Guns.

Separation of church and state a lie.
Presidents must be Christian or else.
I believe he’s a Muslim myself.
When we should truly question what was done.

The illegal war not funded and sold.
Criminal mortgages bought like gold.
The economic bubble did burst.
We continue to fund our military thirst.

The shining city upon the hill
No more culture to light its way.
Nothing to bind us together as one.
The culture war borrowed, sold and won.

Born in the Abyss

it cuts both ways
the tools we use today
discarded tomorrow.
minerals stolen, poison sorrow.

gold drained, used and forgotten.
woodlands raped, wiped and rotten.
building a better tool.
communicating to you.

wired and text messaged.
tell me where you are right now?
what do you dream of?
where are we going?

brains upgraded, many faded.
gray matter turns into dark matter.
memories injected into culture.
history stolen by disease.

stories building our heroes.
legends courting myth.
born in the abyss.
all sins washed away.

Ghost Dance

Indian warriors locked in history.
Their stories updated by everyone.
Displayed on flat screens.
Read by office workers.
Their only war to keep their jobs.
Exchanging status updates.
Farming digital lands.
So many tribes died for this.
Their people murdered and starved.
So real land can be possessed.
Savages sitting in cages.
We all are.

One worker reads these stories.
Is moved to type these words.
Remembers the people who died for this.
Sees his reflection in the monitor.
No longer recognizes himself.
A parking garage outside the window.
A dining hall across the street.
One price for all one can eat.
The war continues far away.
Natives forced to give up land.
Savages sitting in cages.
We all are.

Time and Time Again

Dictator’s topless
Caught with their pants down.
Legs torn open and laid bare.
No walls to protect the glare
Of a million man march

To tear down tyranny.
To seek a free democracy.
Wars are fought over atrocities
Disguising our hopes with fallacies.
Finding no weapons of mass destruction.

No war can replace a dictator.
No foreign armies are ever seen as liberators.
The people will rise up and retrieve
The human dignity they wish to breathe.
Time and time again.

We will continue to learn this lesson.
War is as useless as can be
To the sea of people screaming to be free.
Civil disobedience has its own distinct cadence.
Beating the drum of humanity.
Destroying all walls and barricades.

Digital Gravel

I am not a hacker.
I am not a programmer.
The world is slipping away.
With no smart phone I watch in dismay.

As I become outdated.
My human operating system frustrated.
By all the new technology
That I must adapt to each day.

I build web sites to view on laptops.
Not for display on iPads or iPhones.
Not for applications to download.
The new generation has taken over.

I am just another computer user.
I don’t build systems or networks.
I dress business casual and go to work.
I use all the tools that I can

To help the users that came before RAM.
I know enough to make a living.
No new next big ideas in my head.
Nothing new to add to the social machine.

I clock out and go home to my family.
I am thankful that I can provide for them simply.
I leave the digital revolution to the children to come.
May their programs improve life some.

May they use their powers for good.
May they remember the users before them.
That we put our hands in the digital gravel
So that they could grow this road we all travel.