Broken Pick

Broken Pick

Frustrated;

My retarded fingers

and flat voice

commingle

with

my

rusty dull strings

Off the beat and rhythm

there's a decision

and the cacophony

that ensues

is this moment

To make

or take

into the aether

Does this mean anything?

Resonating wrongly

A Minor or Major here and there?

Floating in the void

and neither making

a

coherent sound

For the pitch is twisted

uneloquently

relayed thoughts

of musicianship

Like a stampede of

mustangs

This moment is dispersing

I'm losing my muse

appearing moment to

moment

The Notes that should be flowing

seem distant

and shriveled

quibbling for the oxygen

breathed through

the body

Gorilla fingering

her neck

stumbling onto

each fret and beating

the voice that is

her rosette

The top is stark contrast to

the tenderness

I've seen others play

Were the binding is clean

and

seamless

with

Ornate inlays on the strap and button

But she is my bride and I her groom

From her stubborn headstock

to her machine head which looms

and the tuning keys

are mine to mend

and her strings to bend

back and forth according to

Pythagorean Theorem

Medicine to a weary soul

So simple is the simple life

Amongst the blowing trees

But at the foot of the mountain lies

the dance of a million years

Internal Pressure

Can you imagine a spring in the dead of winter

From Organizations that are non-linear

shouting in the streets in protest

as people rally for their freedom

Do you see the promise of a better day

When the fall of walls wasn't figurative?

Where Democracy spreading digitally is no longer a myth

like a virus of thought; a contagion, distributed

Anarchy is complete freedom and the fearful are fearless

A light shinning bright in the darkness of the last century

For The Old World Order is dying

Trying to grasps at its useless reigns

Where governments used to keep order behind closed doors

Now they have to compete in the public space

with a voice that is both nameless and pervasive

The will of the people Laid bare.

The youth is coming.

Tip of the Tongue

Tip of the tongue

From their swallered peak

A voice lets out a shriek;

“Follow me and my ways

Follow my lead”

Grab your pitch-forks

and torches

And they do.

Tacit permission from a trusted voice

a Trust soon to be broken in reason and form

For we all believe things that are said and done

By hypocrites and prophets

We all do at some point; I suppose?

“Were you the cause of all these evils?”

I ask,

“No”, is the reply

conveniently you can hide behind your words

and say they were taken out of context.

That the violence that ensued

had nothing to do with you

or your sacred pulpit

or your will that you imbued

into your surrogate killers

commuting onto them

torture and murder

Evil bastard

though you may not have pulled the trigger

You gave them the idea

While hiding behind plausible deniability

taking no responsibility for your gifts

or the dark fruits that they yield

Incite a lynch-mob and you become

a hero to some

and a proxy-assassin to others

Vilify your detractors and they become

caricatures worthy of no quarter

Demonize your opponents and soon you'll see

Wasted lives amid a sea of tumultuous circumstances

victims of happenstance

For the surrogates Master is a coward

Knowing full well that your Words have consequences

Written in blood and the dreadful heart

Tearing families apart

for political gain.

You're the Devils foot-soldier.

I long to return to that place,

where time and meaning have no sway.

Where love and life and dreams mingle into one.

my twisted tongue

and anguish

remain no more.

I am free.