Burn this motherfucker down and howl like a deranged dingo

They are upright but should walk on all fours.
They dress in their painted on jeans and t-shirts torn.
Fed through vegan veggie wraps, wearing their tattooed sleeveless straps.
Some are tan and few are clean.

Most unshaven and all should be unseen.
To not come out in public and maybe that is what they mean.
I didn’t shower or eat today mom, but look at me now.
My artwork is at Art Basel and I’m selling my clown.

Selling technique or lack there of.
Selling my fashion while carrying a club.
I am the tip top of the evolutionary chain.
The cultural leaders of the empire machine.

Evolving so far up, that we must fall down.
In passing I’ll shoot you a quick snarky frown.
How dare you bring kids to an art show downtown.
This work is serious and says so very much.

But is so vague that its needs are such.
The context of the context of our context to my context.
Used to bury any meaning so deeply inside.
That only a small handful would dare subscribe.

There are ghostly faces painted and glued on smudged bodies.
There are drawings of poodles and little girls in lipstick armies.
A sculpture of a ten foot Asian man dropping trough.
Photographs of warehouses full of beautiful nude vultures.

The faces on canvas and the faces walking round,
all seem to echo the same empty sound.
As if struck with a hammer, a bell ringing loud.
This is the end of our empire and this is the art we sell.

There is no meaning here but the excess and apathy that abounds.
No search for truth for truth left town.
Truth went looking for meaning where none was found.
So as an old friend said on my social network just now.

Let’s burn this motherfucker down and howl like deranged dingos.
Cardboard cutouts painted, worn as masks as we play bingo.
No need to correct the ship as it steers off its course.
Madness and destruction has always been its source.

Let’s howl like animals and burn this motherfucker down.
Watch the flames engulf this broken system that we propped up ourselves.
For there is not one innocent person in capitalism now.
Throw a hot dog on a stick and cook it good and crisp as we howl.

The whole thing will go up in no time, so let’s enjoy it now.

Frozen and Thawed

I see 23
A dozen times a day.
The more at peace the more I see.
I am a man with a mask stumbling astray.

His face too scarred for people to see.
His arm too limp to use freely.
Who sees his reality
Frozen and thawed

From the outside looking in.
I wonder if we are free?
Many would say God is Love or God is One.
Some say that God is a disease.

It all began with a huge explosion.
What match lit the flame?
Who birthed the God that sparked the boom?
Are there Gods of our God that loom?

Many say God is not to know but to feel.
That feeling is all that is real.
God is just a word created by humanity.
Used often to start wars over land.

Supported by the word’s origin.
We forget that like a dream it will be over.
Will our waking dreams become lucid?
Will we become our own saviors?

I see another 23.
It is now 3:23.
Is this a signpost put out
To view as I pass along my route

Or is this a glitch in my program?
A software bug for lack of RAM.
An Easter egg left for those who see
The truth, to some degree.

I Am Your Calling

Like a string inside a turkey carcass
Its wings wrapped so it can’t fly.
The light within now dark.
Nothing new to get by.
This light will brighten up the world.
This is your passion, your internal pearl.
It is calling you from deep inside.
No matter what you do to lie.
That light can never be turned off.
It can only be hidden and disguised.
You can find yourself fifty-five.
Having done everything you should.
Raised your children, sent them to college on time.
Retired and started a new job.
Never missed a mortgage payment.
Your high credit score a moral statement.
Able to buy anything you so wish.
A boat, jet skis, even go on hunting trips.
Take weekend get aways with your wife.
And still feel dead without a life.
The voice inside still there.
Whispering, “I am your calling.
You must write words down each day.
You must become a teacher and say.
Children…follow your calling
If you don’t you might become unstable.
Each day growing older and unable
To put one foot in front of another.
Not able to express your frustration and love
That is deep inside your heart.
Even after all the adventures you did start.
Always try and find yourself.
Even if just for five or ten minutes a day.
Remember to find time for YOU to play.

The Big C

there is still a big C I wear as a scar on my head. my skin and bone flap cut open to remove the brain matter that fed…my tumor. leading to chemo and recovery and trying to rewire my brain to my body. my left and right sides not feeling as one. i still bump into walls with my shoulder feeling stitched together some. my left leg goes numb when i work it too hard, which can be a chore. my right hand tingles and feels dead at the core.

i chose poetry as my medium of choice after my surgeries. i felt i could say the most with the least amount of time. be able to download my consciousness to you with a rhyme. so that you might remember. so that this story could be passed on forever. because spoken or written, rhythm is eternal. to tell the story of a man who woke up the day after his surgery. who tried his hardest not to just walk but to run again. started clicking buttons and typing to continue to work, amen. who was thankful for the life he was given. thankful for his wonderful wife and children.

if this was the last thing i was ever to write, i wonder what i’d say to you so you might think twice about how we lived. so that you might do some things better for the human collective and give, knowing that your choices are part of something much much larger. that everything you consume and produce is part of our shared human cancer. a disease multiplied by humans with no answer.

still most would prefer immediate gratification. still most are striving for their personal satisfaction. so with these words i thank the world for what i have been given. i ask for forgiveness for my sins and treason, against my humanity that gave me free will. i apologize that i had to be branded with a C before i learned to chill. i apologize that i threw away so much time and trash. that i ran too much water and burnt too much gas. that i enlisted in the Army willing and ready to kill. that i drank and ate too much of everything, while here. that i didn’t notice more of your beauty and just be still. for now i will continue to tell my story. hoping that through our honesty we will find our full potential and glory.

A New Tradition

and then there was the vegan Thanksgiving, a new tradition. where people from all over came ready and willing. to share. to learn. to think of the future. to be thankful of the earth and their bodies, while saying the blessing and sharing their lunch. a feast was set out before our eyes. not one animal product used to make us this prize.

a guitar was strummed and music sung as we ate and released, the guilt of the culture we wish to change. our country the king of capitalism exporting the slaughter of all animals for our consumption. making it a birthright of our production. that every grill might have animal flesh on it. defining no man a man unless he puts sharp sticks through flesh. then throws it on an open fire, cooks and devours it. we have pitched this as something normal. but where did the hunt go from this tradition. it is this hunger for consumption we have fortressed. not the physical and mental power of tracking ones prey. not the ceremony of thanking the creator before putting it out of its misery. not the using of every part of the animal for clothing and goods. not the recycling of this tradition to the next generation.

we now worship the meat. never looking into its eyes or connecting to the soul of the beast we eat. not knowing what an honor it should be to use its life force. to take its energy back into another course. we now worship the aluminum gas grill. we don’t even need to know how to make our own fire. as we watch our violent games to connect to the physical nature that this ceremony desires. we gather in tribes at our families homes. if we are lucky there might be one vegetable on each plate. if it is not tarred in animal fat, we might be lucky to digest nutrients for our bodies to continue our quest.

not a trick or a trap, we live with these rituals. these are the lies enforced by big business to an ignorant people. where would you get your protein from most say when you don’t eat meat? how little thought goes into that question. how little knowledge they do seek.  obesity in this country is a growing epidemic. shipped to other countries who emulate our need for steak. our countries carbon footprint is a monster. that needs larger shoes and is walking on water. spreading its tracks through the food we sour.

I will remember Kyle

I will remember Kyle.
He worked down the hall.
I didn’t get to know him.

Now he has passed.
Killed by a tragic plane crash.
Four young victims’ lives now a broken hour glass.

I will remember Kyle.
His death has made me think about life.
How easily it can pass.

How I’d like it to last.
How I’d like to really live it
So I can get to know more people in it.

I will remember Kyle
So I can remember life.
How easily we pass each other.

How each of us are brothers.
Sharing our mortality.
Sharing our humanity

And that’s enough for me
To respect any man who passes needlessly.
A candle blown out before it burned.

A life lesson for which we all can learn.

Tiny Print

‘Born in Blood’, ‘True Value’ and ‘The Practice’ read by Byron King at the Florida Tech Institute Panthereum, 11-17-10.

The Practice

To feel one’s feet.
The space between one’s meat.
To find one’s balance.
The symmetry that is substance.

To extend one’s back.
The spine inside intact.
To open one’s lungs.
The air inside unsung.

To have one’s joints torn apart.
The re-alignment gained, a new start.
To know one’s body again.
The spaces between friends.

To stand up straight.
The earth below one’s weight.
To know oneself.
The storm inside, stealth.

To continue the practice.
To heal inside the universal lattice.
To continue to love.
To share what is inside and above.

Through this eternal practice.

In honor of Marios Argiros. Namaste.

True Value

I am American.
my family once owned and operated a store.
my dad fought in the Korean War.

I saw the economy change three decades ago.
many seem to have forgotten, so let us remember.
there were family hardware stores.

there were local markets.
there were toy stores.
there were sporting goods galore.

all family owned and operated.
not in factories, where humanity is separated.
commercials would have you believe in big box stores.

that their prices help the average family.
that they give jobs to the poor.
that one can find a career or even more.

this was the promise of cheap labor.
which betrayed the mom and pop stores for a top few.
who were sacrificed for me and you.

all the generations of Americans
who no longer have the storefront they were born to run
forced to work with Wal-Mart or face the economic gun.

we ignore the sweat shops and lack of human rights
so our household budgets can save and be light
to buy more redbox and Netflix and X-box.

let us not get upset when it all comes toppling down.
don’t be too distraught when you lose your job again
because each purchase you made had more than a price

it had a value.
the value we so easily traded away.
so we could have the cheapest price today.

we dismissed the power of the consumer, for in God we did trust.
we ALL consumed cheaply and we ALL will pay deeply
for not caring about our future.

Born in Blood

Dexter, Dahmer, Columbine and Virginia Tech.
Serial killers. Spree killers. First person shooters.
Born in blood. Blood soaked deep. Watching Thriller.

The empire thirsts for products.
Outsourced for the benefit of the many.
We breed violence. We breed war.

Making terrorists by creating the poor.
We are a sponge to this culture.
We curse it then consume it.

The Roman American coliseum filled
with the entire world, not just innocents anymore.
Growing fat as we produce the terror we hide from.

Football helmets clash crippling kids.
The crowd cheers for all of this.
Buying movie tickets to make it exist.

Serial killers have codes.
America has a constitution.
Both are flexible.

Do either have morals?