the edges of dreams are frayed from all those yesterdays such ragged edges have no chance of restoration nothing can be mended so they’ll just remain as free floating fragments in random moments of life’s memory
please don’t say those words again about us all getting along because we can’t hell even lovers can’t do that so why do we pretend that the embedded rebars of ignorance and hate can be chiseled from centuries of layered contrived history each previous attempt has been paved over with more hatred and fabricated reasons to fear others that are not understood nor acknowledged for that matter so please do not bother me with can’t we all just get along
i’m not sure
why i didn’t notice
it before
perhaps
the window
was partially opened
and
i must
have been closer
to
the window
so
the stench
went
unnoticed
but
i’ve heard
others
speak
of
it
but
i was certain
for awhile
that
they were
quite
mistaken
but
now
the smell
is
totally
oppressive
putrid smells
of
a slaughterhouse
bends
my body
to
the ground
as
i retched
when
i realize
that
in
the darkness
of
these
last few years
it was
the smell
of
the rotting corpse
of
freedom
traditionally a square shaped space with solid bars resembling a cage no flexibility in the range of movements but was excellent at teaching the lesson that there was no way out but the old-fashioned bar design is long gone now modern designs provide flexible walls and a clearer view of what’s beyond the horizon thus facilitating the illusion of freedom this sense of freedom can be enhanced by a variety of extra features added to this stagnant environment options that are entertaining and distracting thus heightening the belief that all things are possible but like all social playpens the function remains the same to maintain confinement thereby safety for the ruling class
called
on
an
as needed
basis
otherwise
their
faces
are
quite
invisible
no need
to
warehouse
personal relationships
nor
store
past emotions
of
devotion
when
one can
merely
send a text
requesting
that
everything be dropped
on
their behalf
but
best to wrap it
in
phrases
like
we really should have lunch
or
i’ve been thinking
so much
about
you
for the longest time
however
better yet
is the admission
of
the sin
of
omission
with
some
act of contrition
words
deeply personal
admitting
to
the neglect
of
your special relationship
with
said friend
seeking
their absolution
before
asking
for what
you
really
want
club’s
well short
of
a quorum
just
a few old jazzers
with
hearts
pulsating
to
piano notes
no one
but
the musicians
on
stage
seems
to notice
the lack
of
patrons
all that matters
to
the old jazzers
is
the music
the antidote
to
the world outside
it’s
been that way
forever
it seems
music
counteracting
the poison
of
the world
releasing
a flood
of
sweet memories
with
just
a few chords
and
notes
a
wall
of
death
names
scribbled
onto
old
decaying
wooden planks
of
history
those
souls
lost
in ignorance
believing
that
online propaganda
could
somehow
or
should
rebuke
science
so
they
joined hands
forming
a circle
around
their misconceptions
to
shield
those
within
but
those
within
all
died
but
the protectors
cheered on
by
the patrons
of
greed
and
power
couldn’t see
the
obvious
for
they
were
looking
outward
facing
the blinding
light
of
truth
unable
to
see
the carnage
of
their
blind beliefs
bodies
piled
high
into
eternity
the old pastor
approached
the young man
after
hearing him
berate
a teenage parishioner
who
had
dropped
a fly ball
spinning around
this novice
of
life
yelled
don’t tell me
how to coach
old man
smiling
the gray haired
parson
said
i wasn’t trying to
i was
hoping to
teach you
how
to think
