The High Priestess

Call upon the terabyte philosophers for aid,

they will know what to do

Getting high on RAM don’t get overstimulated

It’s all temporary

 

A grocery store full of wax fruit is what we desire

I would kill for some grapes

 

We’ll all rust before we wrinkle if we can help it

It’s all temporary

 

The plastic bottle I used to help me breath,

will become the king of the earth

I’m glad I’m biodegradable

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Subway Toast

This is one goes out to the friends,

who help me penetrate the walls with my voice

from pain, joy, or otherwise

To the ones who stare at the shower drain,

wondering how clean they have to be

to feel the warmth of someone else

This one goes out to the bottles,

who didn’t take it personally

when I threw them against the wall

To the Saints of Sound,

who save us every night

from self-inflicted crucifixion

This one goes out to the fighters,

Who work the midnight shift,

so their bones ache instead of their stomach

To the sun who will bless us with vitamin D,

so we can be what we want to be.

Ocular Trauma

What if all the mirrors have been lying to us?

They conspired for our destruction via vulnerable self-esteem

What if they need to be adored like the image they reflect?

They feed off our own vanity

What if the reflection was our own creation?

They’re just brutally honest

What if that’s not me in there?

Of course it is. Take responsibility for your own transgressions.

Why is it bad luck to break a mirror?

Because a broken mirror is really hard to shave with

January

The buttons big and small are polished for glory,

waiting for the megalomania to commence

Guided missiles awaken Gabriel for his song

His song can be heard in Philadelphia and Pyongyang

By men of the alley, carrying their cardboard crosses

crying “ Novus Ordo Seclorum”

 

The redwood trees will outlast this troubled empire,

waiting for Mother Nature to reclaim what’s hers

Wall Street invests in their own survival,

mars is waiting for their conquest

If I bury my melodies in the ground,

will they dig them up as artifacts?

 

While under the shade of palm trees America panics,

waiting for the rockets to fire

A false alarm will help you realize,

how much of a shithole your country really is

It makes you think about things,

and who you love   

 

Wurlitzer Punishment

The sun is unbearable and awkward,

my pockets are empty

Not because my bar tab was high,

or my wages are low

But because of  my heavy debt to the jukebox

 

You can’t sweet talk her into playing,

she only takes cash

I play the same song every time,

in hopes that you can hear it,

All the way up in your tower

 

But you weren’t up there tonight,

you were out, forgetting my name

The only way you can

 

I wish I could do the same

But I’m more likely to stab myself in the back,

than admit I miss you

Us

There isn’t any amount of chains

Or whipping posts that can hurt us

 

There isn’t any amount of small wages

Or long hours that will starve us

There isn’t any amount of burnt pages

Or broken glass that can stop us

 

There isn’t any amount of voting laws

Or wage gaps that can silence us

 

There isn’t any amount of Jim Crow

Or burning crosses that can scare us

 

There isn’t any amount of draft cards

Or machine guns that can change us

 

There isn’t any amount of privatized prisons

Or racist cops that can cage us

 

There isn’t any amount of hateful churches

Or Kim Davis’es that can judge us

 

There isn’t any amount of predatory presidents

Or Richard Spencer’s that can kill us

 

There isn’t anything that can end us. Nothing.
If I can’t dance, I don’t want to be a part of your revolution” – Emma Goldman

Counting Sheep

I was too hard on her
The pillow’s indented
She got into her car
The pillow’s indented
It’s a nice Cadillac
The pillow’s indented
She drove down 95
The pillow’s indented
To get away from me
The pillow’s indented
The truck didn’t see her
The pillow’s indented
Gin can do that
The pillow’s indented