Ambrosia Lake, Wild Turkeys, and Mt. Taylor
Dec 7, 2015 | zanespirithetic@gmail.com | Adventures, Poetry and Verse, Project Blog | 0

 

Ambrosia Lake

I waved to a man

A bodyguard watching the remains

Paid by the hour, an overseer, a Forman

New nostalgia and advertised dystopia

Feeding temporal claim of a mountain

Long gone

Only vague recollections replayed in a drum of endless revolution

Thunderbird, wild turkeys, and sacred land

The grass grows green

Radioactive still

With blood dripping like sweat from the palms of our hands

And the mad cow mocks every passer…

 

Rio Grande Resources

Very far from the Rio Grande

Still a cosmic joke, but unkind at best

Polite, but never welcome

Another pipeline points at the peak

Covered in green rust

Blank stares at a dry river bank, and a loss for speech

What was lost in the choice to trust?

From the tops of many towers

to vats with cyanide

Water flows in pumps, a homestead

Very far from home

In between the canyon people, petrified in stone

Only shadows of the dead remain

Moments in time, spinning in circles

Yet, only the few are brave enough to turn their head

and even more enjoy the poison

Irradiated soil, green as the grass was before the agents in orange suits

And the mad cow mocks every passer

 

Poverty of poison

In the middle land

Abandoned mobile homes and children’s toys

Meth labs and isotopes, frozen in decay

226, 228, 230

Internecine, and the paper only buys more hell

Closed, chained like before, and forgotten away

Our mother of common abuse ponders the injustice

The need for bodyguards has expired

Only drugs, reclamation, and dirty water

And all the land they stand on is worn out and worthless

Inevitable projects

Over many country miles

Chaco’s for sale or slaughter

Just a tailor crying in the wind, when only seldom can hear

Time passes, and passes again

People curl like dead leaves, the shapes reminiscent of past transgressions

Crushed, another washed down memory in a can

Thrown out of a car window

Always on the move

Always craving more

And everything left for the future contained

In only two words:

Nukes and Budweiser

 

And the mad cow shouts at every passer

“Long time passing. Long time ago”

 

 

 

Ubi Sunt: The Wink of a Stranger Says The Illusion of Truth
Jun 26, 2015 | zanespirithetic@gmail.com | Poetry and Verse | 0

 

UN Conscious trauma

My DNA on fire, in wrest, and restless is my spirit

Like a broken branch on the Cottonwood

We reach to the water to heal

Awake, anxious

I leap from my head

To discover the flesh worn from toil

Another spine bent back too far

Innocence a term of abstract, the remains a meal

Of a memory born too far to grasp

I am reborn in the morning only to forget by the fall of light

 

I sat with Trudell to have a smoke:

Electric Babylon

Fading

Warping

Distracting through form when all is formless

Petty idols

Hollow as the void of its creation

Loveless is the disposition of its makers

This is no way to live

Here is no place to heal

The virus is the worm and the worm an empty promise

Stagnant, dwelling in perpetual manipulation

unable to find the wings only butterflies can bring

A perfect parasite

Feeds on the wound

Pulling back the bark, stripped and teased

And made to please

All progress measured in consumption

Numbers with no relations

Letters with no meaning

Words with no correspondence

The structure, a tower to sustain a model

Built atop corrupt intentions

Dressed as the emperor

And sold as the godhead, so being is a sacrament

 

When every sacrifice is only to deepen the void

Convince the heart of its separation

The toil is for waste

The heart of love a forgotten taste

A wool spun from illusions of empty creation

Is the fashion of your only modern day choice

 

Another drag, and a kiss from a pipe, the wise man continues:

Forgetting that remembering is what we came to this fire to talk about

Burn the log of truth

Remember your brothers and sisters not in illusion

A mad ones play in a dark room to enjoy what laughing

Is

Where has all the laughter gone?

To the bottom of a bottle

Where have all the muses gone?

Into a hole in another artists arm

Where have all the flowers gone?

North on a train

With refugees

All the way to New Orleans

With the weight of patience in the same dead dream

Long time passing means

Long time passing means

Long time ago.

 

 

 

 

 

Winter fires in The Casa
Jun 26, 2015 | zanespirithetic@gmail.com | Poetry and Verse | 0

 

Winter again

The butterfly is dead

Freedom asleep with survival

Sharing the light within to bring balance out to play

Meandering from stone to smiling

They all turn away

Children, we are them

So afraid of the silence

The cold, reaching for a light we orbit

Snow Blankets Buffalo and rebirth

 

Winter again

The butterfly is dead, but not forever

And another fire burns, just passing laughs like feathers in the wind

Tomorrow is forever

And today only lasts so long

Vagabond and blood from the paupers pride

A one eyed priest missing the left and right

Holds an open hand to touch the light, to feel the sky

Only emperors fear the fruit of forgotten knowledge

The snake, the original scapegoat

Was waiting behind the birch tree

For a human soul wise enough to listen

Just to remind the children of their hubris

And nostalgia for longing inaction.

 

The Bombs Fall Over Gaza and All I Feel Is Rain
Jun 26, 2015 | zanespirithetic@gmail.com | Poetry and Verse | 0

 

 

Brother against brother

And nothing left for mother

Black, white, brown, indigenous other

All drawing a line, bisecting through color

All dripping the blood of lost voices

 

Becoming a shade that connects, indifferent

Early morning dawn

Full moon illuminates the minds eye

And the vacillation of shadows die

The sleep of reason and the study of fear

Leaves monsters to make the choices:

Who lives and who dies?

Who eats and who cries?

 

Fresh roasted with your choice of flavor

Distilled in the faint

Cries, the pain of feudal labor

One sip, ignored and abandoned

Roasted souls, hymns, songs of the heartland

Captivity in the form of fabric

Green, but more like grey

As mason Dixon bleeds the circumference of our homeland

An illusion of choice where all roads lead south

Both banks of the Mississippi covered in blue

Bigots posed as stars, marking through truth

Hunched over, in a chair on a porch, the delta plays

The blues of desperation turn red, brave and benign

Howling in the wind, prophecy, a call from the dawn of time

When the stripes of white still win

and cover canyons, dreams, and love like steel bars

All the world can only sigh

 

More bombs fall like rain through an empty roof

The summer, primavera, of a shelled safe

Blood for money

Diets for the family

And resistance is still the burden of proof.