Hope and Pocket Change


Numbers before my eyes.
New dates, new labor and times.
Not sure how they may take
Me from point A to make
It to point B, to another
Place to orientate.
To buy a house now.
To put money down.
Make charges on a card.
To sign my name King.
As the market bell rings
The future of a new family is found.
A home they wish to round
Out and make their own.
New paint, new floors, new loan.
As bombs fall in distant lands.
As gas drills into toxic water expands.
The state in which we were raised
We wish to educate our own.
To make a life of our own.
To make the world a better place.
No security in this space.
To live from month to month
Is to be American.
With no future but today
Marching into tomorrow in dismay.
Holding onto HOPE even if
It’s just a four letter word.

Our Human Shores

Humans are at the center of design
As we can sit here and recline.
Life critical systems operate all around.
They are hidden out of view and can’t be found.

They produce the water we drink.
They produce the electricity we use to help think.
All prototyped by cross disciplinary teams.
Created by engineers, scientists, sociologists and machines.

All working in concert to not be seen.
Make our lives better and longer as never before.
To remove the misery from our human shores
Where the mental meets the physical.

So we can progress past petty wars over land.
So we can progress past limited resource problems.
The designer is at the core of the solution.
So that we may overcome our limited evolution.

To explore the universe to which we have been birthed.
To extend our consciousness through the space we search.
Human centered design is essential.
So that we may realize our truest potential.

Culture Vultures

Blood sweat and tears
For too many years.
They took us from our land.
Sold us lies with a smile and a hand.

For hundreds of years we dreamed of this.
Etched and painted white faces.
Passed our stories down to our children.
We could have never prepared

For the pain and suffering the future held.
Forced into sand boxes in far off lands.
The trail was far too long for any man.
So they gave us alchohol to forget.

Now we drink too much with no hopes of employment.
We try to pass our culture down to our youth.
But they leave as soon as they can, to seek their truth.
Living a life of ghostly memories knowing

That their ancestors once lived proud and free.
This land was ours before any white man was to see.
As they make dream-catchers to find themselves.
As they sweat out their poisons from their tumor cells.

They have taken our culture and ate it like vultures.
Regurgitated it back to whomever would eat it.
We saw this coming but we did not approve it.
There was no stopping the white man in the end.

Now they take tours of our holy places and think of our spirits.
They see our burial mounds and think of our magic.
Tears still flow from the trail we were forced to veer.
We watch now as they destroy the world, how tragic.

 

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.

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.

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

Speechless.
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.

The one true God is dead

The one true God is dead.
We shot him in the head and watched as he bled.
Because he grew fear and hate.
Because he watched us and did nothing to state
That love is God is a word.
A feeling that we all have but do not deserve.
Because we have massacred our own people.
Turned the other cheek in the temple.
Then cursed and thrown rocks at our enemies.

The one true God is dead.
He never existed as we were led
By an idea of oneness that permeates.
This is not God but fate.
That we are consciousness, the eyes and ears.
The heart of all universal joy and fear.
We share this with all matter in this place.
The inner and outer space we face.

The one true God is within.
All the evil and sin inside.
All the love and truth begins
With the awareness that WE are the way.
The path we choose, new each day.

Before he died he went blind.