A vignette – Young boy from a small Southern town. Raised in a culture which hovers just around poverty, whatever that is. Necessity can breed genius and skills passed on from earlier generations still link him to the land. Making do with what is available is the “redneck” way. While he may never know the “sophistication” programmed into the larger culture, he carries in his blood a wisdom and frank view of the world that many will never fathom. He laughs at “City” folks who would starve to death if they closed the grocery stores and cut off the water. He wonders at their ignorance. What follows is told in the language, inflection, and accent of that world. A word of advice, if the world falls apart you better know some rednecks. 🙂
Yeah, I seen them pull up and stop outside her house. They seemed important, or like they wanted to be anyway, walking like they do, like they own the damn place. It was the cops and a guy in a dark suit, the man from the bank. I seen them knock on her door and wait. They talked to each other like they were making a plan or something. One of them had some papers and started shaking them at her when she finally did open the door. She just stood there, still like that big rock we played on in her backyard. They were talking to her, but she wasn’t listening. She looked right past them, through them. And I watched her. She looked up and down the block then she seen me. She smiled at me and nodded as if she knew, like she was telling me goodbye or something. Then I seen her look up, past everybody to something in the sky. And I looked up too, to see what she was looking at, but all I seen was clouds. Then this dove landed on the telephone wire in front of her house. She grinned. Her eyes lit up and her mouth moved like she was talking to somebody. She raised her arms and took a step out the door on to the porch and then she fell down dead. A couple of the cops got all excited and started talking on their radios and shit, and another started doing that CPR stuff on her. The banker man, he just watched like he was bored, like it was all just getting on his nerves. I saw him look at the cops then he looked at her. Then that bastard stepped over her like she was a mat at the door. Guess he got what he wanted, but so did she. She’s finally home.
But They say lots of things and it changes like the wind blowing this way and that
They used to say it was flat
Pluto used to be a planet too
Then it was not, now who knows
Can someone remind me if eggs are still bad for you
Is it Global Warming or Global Cooling or just Change now
It is hard to keep up between seasons of American Idol and Netflix marathons
It is hard work whoring myself for the next newest shiny thing They say I must have to be complete
I need to turn on the programming written for my particular demographic to get my bearings
Let’s see . . . what trifle shall I mediate on today
Whose direction will fill my thoughts and be parroted with borrowed words
Am I against Christians or Gay people, Black or White Devils or the manipulated Mexicans brought in to fill a growing gap
Do I care more about puppies than baby parts
Will I kill you over an idea that you are an idea, a label not a soul
Existential unnamed rage projected onto the stereotypes injected into my mind
Or will today be a time to remember that I forgot to feel terrorized
By the ones They have created, pissed on and off, and financed
Cause if I am angry about flags and fags or pants that sag I won’t consider
It will never enter my mind that perhaps I am asleep dreaming I am awake in this hall of mirrors
A prison of half-truth and misdirection, held captive by the cage created in my mind
Fighting for the crumbs from Master’s table that I have built and even now sustain
Righteous anger aimed amiss is an impotent thing and is no threat to Them
It only tightens the noose and the more I struggle the less I can breathe
That is why it was said to turn the other cheek. It dissipates Their power
They feed off the struggle of the pawns and the knights, the bishops and the royal court who think they are players
But no, they are being played, both king and pawn.
The game is played above their heads with pillars and ladders to heaven
Whether one travels a space at a time or the length of the board it is still on the square, boundaries defined by the Makers of the game
Rules and moves defined, determined by demographic, groups magically manipulated by the illusion of averages and statistics
Groups cannot think, only individual souls might consider that there may be better questions that would reveal the real play
A soul might pause and wonder why is it that they ask Them for permission to marry in the first place or why it is we seek a right that we already posses
A soul may ask how it is that we have surrendered our authority to smiling sorcerers and devils that claim to own this world and us through Divine Right
Birthright traded for a bowl of beans, distraction of their fertility rituals, and conjured safety
For They promise security and solutions from threats and problems They created
They break my legs and I gratefully accept the crutches They provide from my labor
And I will continue to eat the poisoned food and water They make available then come flaccid and fat and weak, hat in hand begging my Masters for Healthcare
I will not give a moment’s thought to Their mass genocide, drug trade, trafficking in children for sex, starvation of tens of thousands because it is convenient, expedient for Them
No, but I will fight for my right to remain a slave to the business of the MON EYE god they serve, stay discontent in my little cube as they offer me up as a sacrifice to the Lord of the Rings
It is all business, nothing personal, I am a number, a member of a group and have grown accustomed to my bondage
My chains may be of iron or gold yet chains they remain
And I will be on guard to protect my status
It is what I have traded for my empty, grasping, and envious soul
I have become my own prison guard policing myself and others ever watchful for the code words that signal a breach in the walls of my demographic
Cracker, Nigger, Faggot, they change through the years and the current context of culture
They are a function not a person, but if I am a statistic what do I know of spells and incantations spoken over me from my birth
Flags and Fags and pants that Sag are the current code words which illicit the predictable preprogrammed patterned response
I will watch as they change business models based on trends and temperament of the slaves
Socialism, Capitalism, Fascism, Communism, are all isms and ocracys and any will serve them at need
It is all the same game to them and they need good ignorant slaves whatever They call them or the system dejure
Even if one wants to be a “good” Master, they still want to be Master
But, what if the world is flat after all
What would that mean
Would it alter my steps
I think not. They come one yard at the time either way
I encounter one soul at the time too. I have never met an average or a median or mean
Men and women and boys and girls given rights by their Creator
Given seeds and water and earth and resources for life in love and grace, not walking death and slavery
Real change happens in the heart and the mind as we awaken and shake off the webs they weave
They can only do what we allow, it is all a head game played by our leave
No is the most powerful word
There is no need to fight anything but the fear and the addiction to what does not satisfy anyway
P.S. It is interesting that the UN uses a Flat Earth map. What’s up with that?
P.S.S. They said it was flat, then a ball, but now use a flat map, I wonder what people will do when They tell them that the Aliens are here to save us and it is important to submit to trans-human implants?
P.S.S.S. It all sounds crazy when it is first said. It always has because it’s different. It sounded crazy when they told you not to shit your pants anymore too. Your world was shaken but you learned to handle your shit differently.
P.S.S.S.S. The funny and sad part is that some folks will take more issue with the map and alien stuff than the slavery they are living.
P.S.S.S.S.S. Just remember that if there is fear and a promise of safety They generated the fear and built the pens for everybody to run into. That is the real game.
P.S.S.S.S.S.S. Perfect love casts out fear – Love, Your Creator
This event was held at the Birmingham Botanical Gardens. It is a beautiful place and draws a rich mixture of people. It was similar here tonight. A Poetry Slam I learned is an odd mixture of hip artsy folks and folks that just want to be around those folks. There is a particular vibe and energy and rhythm about it. It is kinda like the Gong Show but kinder. The themes generally are urban or cutting edge progressive. It is as much about emotions that are elicited than the actual poetry in a sense. But the spoken word and the live performance creates emotional fields to provide the context for what the artists are attempting to accomplish. It is a particular genre that I discovered is not where I am most fluent. I will return and continue to do me there but don’t have any ambition of winning a competition of this type. But I did not go to win. I went to test and stretch my Self, to risk and discover new aspects of being alive. It is amazing to me that I would be doing something like this. It is something that was completely foreign to me just a few months ago when I was young (only 51). I accomplished what I intended. First and foremost I did something I was afraid (well afraid is too strong a word) of doing. I only risked my ego and survived. Not that big a deal. I also met some new people and sowed new seeds that may produce fruit unforeseen down the road a bit. I guess part of what I am doing is providing an example of stepping out. I have found that sometimes it is not all that sexy and exciting. . . but sometimes it is. 🙂
I used to call what I do Spoken Word but after hearing it I realise that is not me. I am not urban. I have plenty of soul but it comes out of different roots. Louisiana rural, country, jazz, R&B, with a little Funk thrown in the mix was the context of my groove. Maybe Spoken Jazz or something along that line would be more correct. If anybody has any ideas holla. Here is a recording of me doing my thing. A kind soul recorded it on their phone. I like the poem better with the music but that is just me. It is slow to load here so if you have come this far and still want to hear it you may let it go ahead and load before trying to listen. It is an mp4 file if some of you know what that is. I selected the option to imbed the media player. I use Windows if any of that matters. Maybe it will be better where you are. Be Groovy! 🙂
Perhaps it is that when one feels washed overboard, afraid, exhausted, and without a raft there is something in the depths of grace for us there. Perhaps the raft is what keeps us from knowing. Blessings, sweetness, and understanding that you are not alone.
Whatever flavor of spirituality that you may tend toward there is a depth and beauty in this. All poetry is metaphor anyway. Hold them lightly or risk their death. Where there is beauty there is the perfume of truth. It resonated with my soul from that place in me that is too deep for words. It allowed me to weep. That is a good gift for a hardened sometimes stupid man like me. 🙂 Maybe my chakra thingy is better for it. Blessings on your quest for the One who is beyond all metaphor.
