The Rising Tide

“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
for he to-day that sheds his blood with me
shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
this day shall gentle his condition:
and gentlemen in England now a-bed
shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
and hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
that fought with us…”

We are the new legs on this tired revolution.
We are the salt of the earth.
We keep them clothed.
We keep them fed.
We teach their children.
But we have been robbed of our history.
Our compliance and our quiet candor
has removed us of our voice.
We have stood back and watched.
We’ve watched our peers die on the street.
We’ve watched our children starve.
We’ve watched our children go cold.
We’ve watched them get rich of the sweat off our backs.
We sat back and watched as they turned our culture against us,
as they tried to make us feel savage; inferior.
But they were the ones, who raped our women;
our goddesses of this earth,
while we sat back and thanked them
when they gave us these slave wages.
We’ve sold our lives, our creativity
and our silence has only strengthened them;
embolden these faceless men who run the big show.
Always them and never us,
but we are as much to blame.
I compel my brothers
(Blue collar slaves)
and I beg my sisters
(white collared indentured servants)
to stand and take back their worth.
Stand tall in unity and feel your worth…
own your own lives.
Each one of us is a brick of defiance
that will shatter this glass cage we’ve been put in.
Allowed to see the world but never allowed to touch it;
experience it.
It’s time we waged our own genocide;
against injustice.
Against false governments
and controlling religions.
Denounce your faith and be free.
You can become God
and this world can become your kingdom.
Let this be the spark
that ignites the first molotov cocktail;
that burns the first church or
capital building.
Let this be your near life experience.
Let this be the white light
you’ve been waiting to walk through;
to cross over.
Let this be the start of the life you’ve been promised.
Let this be the start of your self revolution.
Let this be the start of your salvation.
Porque…
“¡Prefiero morir de pie que vivir simpre arrodillado!”

Los Angeles

I move through her streets
like a lovers hands move over a beautiful woman’s body;
slowly, observant, passionate…
But my starlet has seen her fall from grace.
She has become the whore at the end of the bar.
The woman once stunning in her prime,
once courted by the world,
now weeps;
laying in her old satin nightgown…alone.

Her breast’s sag,
her eyes and mouth cracked with lines
from years of squinting in the limelight.
She lays awake waiting for salvation.
As the Santa Anna’s blow
you can still catch a hint of sweetness,
her soft perfume sifted through picket fences of litter.
I pick up the trace and I close my eyes.
I see her as she was,
and I see all the men who used her.

I make my way to the east side
and I see her tattoo’s.
I see the faded ink pulse
in places most dare not look.
But I caress her and I kiss them,
she looks away but,
I can still see the shame in her eyes.
I tell her to forgive them,
for they know not what they do.
They are the new legs in a fading revolution;
…her disenfranchised children.
They rebel against their mother
and blame them for the way their lives turned out.

I continue to caress, to wander, to journey.
I move though her and trace the track marks.
I kiss up and down her arm,
and I tell her she is not alone.
Forgive them,
your beauty frightened them.
They turned away from their mother,
feeling undeserving of her love.
…But with a word she accepts them back with open arms.


We have slept at her feet,
we have wept in her arms,
we have howled at the moon,
and passed never ending bottles of whisky.
She has made us and we have made her.
And, although she is broken
her eyes still burn hot,
red with passion.
Her soul rages inside this used tired body,
and at night she whispers to me.
And she sings for those who are willing
to listen.
She tells us we are her children;
poets, prostitutes, pan handlers….

She tells us her stories and those of her children,
she tells us we are never alone.
She tells us they will beat us,
they will make us feel ashamed,
and they will try to break us,
to extinguish the fire in our eyes
and the passion in our hearts.
But as long as we never surrender,
as long as we never accept their
cyanide of creativity;
we will always be her children.
And we will always have a home at the end of the world.

Soul

I spend glorious days
and magnificent nights
wandering, drinking, lying…
thinking of past loves.
I remember the love that was professed,
the body that was shared;
more sacred than communion.
The sadness cuts with precision
like a skilled surgeon with a sharp scalpel.
My hands shake as I reach for a glass and a smoke.
I speak as though hardened and indifferent
but that is the furthest from the truth.
My chest burns
as my heart lumps in my throat,
begging to leave this vessel.
It knows they each took a piece
of it with them,
a piece it will never get back;
rendered incomplete for eternity.
I pray these are just the feeling of being green;
growing pains that will define themselves on my face,
so that they may be known.
A quick decision must be made,
for the sword of Democles
hangs over my head.
Spare me the sadness of loss
and the loneliness of indecision.
I wish to be laid to rest now,
no longer a prisoner
of these thoughts and feelings.
I wish to be mechanical.
I wish a filter to process
the loss and loneliness,
so that my heart no longer absorbs it.
I am but human,
and this so called “Divine Gift”
of choice is but a cruel joke,
a curse…
to which I have become it’s submissive servant.
A warning for those yet to be born to this place:
“Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate”

Romance; Russian Roulette

She sat at the end of the bar
and flashed me that smile,
the one every man’s seen before.
Some lessons are better never learned
but I’m just not the type.
She was a fly,
caught in my web
…begging to be devoured.
Heartbroken, heartless
and just waiting to be fucked.
But don’t let them fool you,
they play prey,
‘till your caught at the business
end of their love…
Wishing it was a loaded gun.
Their love is a nuclear weapon.
A woman’s love will bring a nation to its knees.
Inspired Cortez to conquer,
so that he may be conquered.
The time has come,
and decisions must be made.
Conquer or be conquered?
But remember old boy,
romance is Russian roulette
and in the end there is no victor.

Esmeralda

She’d been running her whole life
guess eventually it was my turn
and she’d run from me.
No, but I never chased her.
I knew better.
She’d get lost in Spain, Rome…Greece.
She’d smile and sing,
and wear white dresses
living with Gypsies
or transient bohemians
modest and happy.
I pictured her smiling
drinking ouzo and wine well into the night.
Black skies and shimmering stars.
Candles and Christmas lights strewn about
a simple compound as they danced and sang.
A few brass players, a simple string,
her black hair and brown eyes;
glowing, shimmering, and mightier than the stars.
She was made free;
restless.
I received a few postcards but never thought twice.
It’d feel like I was caging the beauty in the world,
stealing the electricity that makes it special.
But as the sun sets behind the mountains,
and the music fades and the candles flicker,
as the ouzo starts to make her tingle and
the birds sing her to sleep,
she’ll think of me and smile.
A single tear, that never drops.
A life forgotten.
She’ll remember that nothing gold can stay,
and life, well life is for the living.
As for me,
I’ve got promises to keep
and miles to go before I sleep.