As you get older the more things change – for the better or for the worse. Sometimes being a writer and becoming somewhat of an self-isolationist is like being in a sanctuary and finding your true self, your true voice and words. The outside world never goes away. It will always be there.
“Being a poet isn’t something you are or choose. It’s something that happens to you at irregular intervals and with no guarantee it will happen again. You can disregard it when it does happen but you can’t turn it on. All you can do is wait.”
If you swallow poison your heartbeat stands still, then stops to usher in our brother death. All welcome and warm.
It’s happened before for I am no stranger. I walk this weary world alone this mortal coil looking for whatever may be a truth, love oh God a love of God’s of flesh & blood & tribulation when there’s nothing else left. But I am no man of God but just a man of words and cigarettes, whiskey and poetry. Another madman who creates worlds with his pen. Sits in bars, places for hours waiting for the muse to guide me down my ancient path. My church is unknown to you and all you men of commerce you men of wealth and destruction and greed. I keep my one good eye upon you, watch you in all your darkness trying to hide your symphony of dalliances’ and crimes. Your sins against mankind. Your hands in the money pot your hands in wars and death and disease. You never see me but I’m there. Waiting. Waiting with words and my one true voice to take down you and yours your corrupt kingdoms your self made reputations and to judge you as you falsely judge me and mine. The poor and the working people. The starving masses and the rest of the world seeking sanctuary from far away lands. This is America. This is what humanity once meant and stood for. You’ve destroyed it. Used it. Used us and have filled up your pockets with lies and green. A green that the starving shall never see. You’re monsters and not people. Corporations and not our country tis of thee.
So I light up another cigarette and I make notes in my journal. And in my mind I send you on your way to hell with a smile and no regrets. You can ignore me but there are thousands like me. Me and mine. The people you despise, the people whose beliefs and lives don’t matter to you. But we’re waiting. We’re not leaving you are and we’re staying. No matter how many times you poison the well no matter how many stories that your cronies’ manufacture. We’re Americans. We’re the people who bust our asses everyday so garbage like you can live in castles. We are the slaves without a mention we are the tools with masters unseen. Too many cigarettes can make you see the truth. Too many voices can cause a revolution. A revolution of words. A revolution of the light we shed upon you.
So if you swallow poison your heartbeat stands still, then stops to usher in our brother death. All welcome and warm.
“. . . a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces.
Naked and alone we came into exile. In her dark womb we did not know our mother’s face; from the prison of her flesh have we come into the unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth.
Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked into his father’s heart? Which of us has not remained forever prison-pent? Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?
O waste of lost, in the hot mazes, lost, among bright stars on this weary, unbright cinder, lost! Remembering speechlessly we seek the great forgotten language, the lost lane-end into heaven, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door. Where? When?
O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again.