Poetry

The assault on the self-image has begun
There shall be no halt
An eternal escapade fully equipped with machine guns and
Mexicans
A battle for the rights of minds:
No stoppage until a full page is empty
Until sanity has been captivated by facts,
And has captured its paths to freedom
 
And even the backdrop has a tinge of neon
After all isn’t this life?
Pure flow abstracted or unabstracted into linguistic
understanding and then formed by this very abstraction of the abstract by a
form of the purely abstract abstraction
Then carefully consigned to a specific place;
Now here in lies the difference, possibly the only true
dichotomy
The rearrangement and representation of this pure being
One can make this, life, an expression of one’s self, of
one’s divinity
No fuck that!
True expression, even with the hiding walls and the factual
lies
Or one can deceive out of insecurity and hate
And fear and bring dishonesty into fruition and build
massive subcultures and suburbs
And leave the urban ruins to die slowly, crumbling under
corporate pressure from peers and priests, from friends and family, from drug dealers
and cops
Empty
 
This reminds me of an India
Far far away where the camels dance fluid
And the ghost of Allen Ginsberg lays quiet in his most
beautiful form
(Oh the saintly attachment!)
Where he writes forever!
Forever playing with the written word
Manifesting and being manifested by the wonder of poetic
expression