nothing too personal…

nothing too personal

pain of children hid
by bars of propaganda
to raise campaign funds

within this belief…

within this belief

suspicion
vines
its way
into the smallest
spaces of doubt
quickly spreading
suffocating trust
and
though
one day
the roots
may be severed
suspending life
a dried vine
even with
the slightest
spark
burns easily
consuming
its host

listen carefully…

listen carefully

the drums
have always had
their own language
patterns of speech
undefined by words
captured
in the soul
as vibrations of history
a history
of pain
spoken
in the drum’s
rhythmic refrains
of dark things
hidden
within the mind
how
strange
the many forms
that pain
can take
that we are willing
to dance to

cubanize…

cubanize

let’s take
all the world’s
religions
place them
into one
large
celestial blender
puree
and then
filter out
all the ingredients
added
by man
leaving
just
words of truth
rename
this
purified blend
and
begin
to believe

the old man in the sea…

the old man in the sea

you see me
but
do not
know me
you hear me
but
do not
listen
you speak love
but
do not
practice
you find faults
but
see none
of yours
your words are
but
promises
unkept

programme du bal…

programme du bal

you came
to the dance
cheerfully
singing the songs
of dead men
as if
your chants
could place
flesh
upon
earthen
bleached bones
and
breathe
new life
into lungs
long emptied
but
you’ve longed
to dance
with them
and
to smell
the sweet perfume
of their dreams
that
aphrodisiac
of unlimited freedom
dreams
buried beneath
layers of compromise
like leaves
decaying
beneath years
of neglect
but still
you long
to dance
and so
i sign
your dance card
a card
decorated
with faded words
of revolution