Atlantis, times three

i am trying to find myself

between commercials


i am located

somewhere deeper

than that


times three

i remember almost dying

the weight

was too great

i got

stepped on

like flagstones

I saw you there

we could touch


through our

imperial pints

of tears



times three

i got stripped

like a stripper

but without

so much

a choice

off the walls

in the paint

in the darkness

the memory



i laced up

to give them


2 remember


i tried then

2 forget


i grabbed the knives

in the kitchen

and turned

toward them


its real painful

to look

i could drown

in it


times three

i found me

by looking


by watercolor

bled down

in the city

bled out

to the valley

sweet canvas

of colors

shelters me now

the painted walls

i like to

leave them

this way

i am different

i am young

my spirit

touched by

the sound

of the colors

dripping down


times three

is where

i am found


July, 2013

watching you watching them watching you

The cost we pay to live in the USA…. may be exemplified by a simple road trip cross country, trans America (USA). Try it out. You will find towns beneath highways that resemble other towns beneath highways. People behind cash registers that appear as tired as other people behind cash registers. In their tired uniform uniforms. Tired of it. Watching you. Watching you watching them. Watching you watching them watching you. Tired. If blindfolded and turned around ten times, then asked to locate ourselves… we might not have a clue. I am the pot that calls the kettle black.

Even  mother nature grows weary as she is stripped of her plentiful bounty and forced to push high fructose corn syrup up out of her chilled soil. These are only the touch of the surface of problems growing wider and deeper every day in this beautiful country we have pledged our loyalty, too, or pledged allegiance too, the republic, for which it stands, one nation, under God (of our understanding), indivisible. Though factions may develop at times, united we stand. For we know in our hearts that divided, we will fall. We have become willing, some of us, to lay down our lives for our country. The rest of us (worth mentioning) atleast try and pay our taxes. The rest of us may simply be marginalized, paying dues. I am the pot that calls the kettle black.

The solution? I cannot guess what it is, exactly. Another ascetic experiment like Walden Pond? Heavier drinking? More bed-in protests? Polyamory? Washing down pharmaceuticals? Attempts to colonize Mars? That could generate some good hearty laughs. The money may get pushed around, but that wont necessarily grow it, rather it may keep the virtual cash flow propped up until some recluse mathematician tells us in no uncertain terms we are fucked. Royally.

Look for China to bring her influence to your doorstep, USA. Look for history to be rewritten to account for the dynasties. Look for the Color Red. Streaming quickly like a dragon, in and out of chinatown locales, ever expanding and contracting and expanding again, demonstrably, tangibly! You will learn the difference between Cantonese and Mongolian cuisine! You will be careful where you post your Free Tibet! decals.

I say look to the youth. The baby boomer babies. Only they may be our saving grace. For they are naturals on computers. They embrace diversity. They may best manifest the new paradigm overtaking us, whether we like it or not. Stay open-minded, my friends. Be flexible. Let your pride down, but not your guard. Work on your credit score. Resist that four foot flat screen on sale at best buy! Or read a fucking book for a change. Get off your ass and ride a bicycle, perhaps. For godsakes, people! The 2-liters of cola littering your floor? Recycle them, ok? Change your ways! Give a damn about the environment! Look around you to your atmosphere, don’t shut yourself inside and soak into your imprint! You don’t have that luxury anymore! I am the pot that calls the kettle black.

Be a man! Be a woman! Find your heart! Your spirit! Rejuvenate your soul, I don’t care if its shock therapy! Jump off a pier into cold winter waters! Go camp out with the Occupiers for a night! Talk to your children, you might learn something you don’t already know! Humble yourself. Your ego thinks you’re a celebrity. Center of the world. Commander of all electronic devices you survey. Hero in your own head! Knock knock! Anybody home? I am the pot that calls the kettle black.

East meets West takes on a whole new meaning, now. Its not doing yoga inside your home theatre anymore. Its more like pot stickers…we are the pot stickers, frying in the pan, not quite feeling the heat thanks to our doughy second skin. But the heat has been turned up and insensitivities are giving way to hypersensitivities, you know. Check it out. Walk around. Look and listen. Drop and roll. You ain’t gonna survive if you cannot find and heal your poor lost (and truly discarded) taxed out past credit, beleaguered soul. I am the pot that calls the kettle black.