We were young rebels acting cool
hanging out all hours of the night
tired of being tame, we went wild
letting ourselves loose on the streets
dancing under the neon lights
and singing our songs to the stars.
But we discovered other stars
in the pulsing music of cool
sounds blowing loud, heavy and light
in the steam of a hot summer night,
grooving to the beat of the streets,
listening to the call of the wild.
We were set free and born to be wild,
a brand new age of rock and roll stars
riding the big wave down the streets.
We were young Turks, the kids of cool
the banished children of the night
living for the dark, cursing the light.
But, like suicidal moths drawn to fire-light
we pushed our limits and went wild.
Out of control we were out all night,
boozing and cruising beneath the stars,
living and dying in the act of being cool
with no escape from stress on the street.
Consumed by the heat of the street
We burned to break away and light
up a joint or guzzle a crisp, cool
beer and chase it down with some 'Wild
Turkey' sending us off to the stars
and our explorations of the night.
We were lost souls in an endless night,
wandering in the dark with no stars
or signs to guide us out on the streets.
We craved for just a spark of light
to shine down on our world gone wild,
chilled by the obsession of being cool.
We were the kings and queens of cool nights,
the puppet figureheads of the wild streets,
eclipsed by the starlight forever out of reach.
Do you want to stone me
because I might be
or an agnostic
to your faith?
Maybe you should just
tie my limbs
and nail me
with old rusted
upon an intersection
of fact and fantasy.
Will you do this
for my redemption?
I’m not worthy
let the blood rush
to my head
you can cut me down
chop me up
feast on my body
drink my blood.
Take what is left
of my remains
in a sacrificial flame
scatter the ashes
in the wind
in your chalice
keep them in your private
And then you can try
to resurrect me
in your holy water
to make me
This is the land of freedom of choice:
Coke or Pepsi,
light beer or dark,
less filling, tastes great,
Republican or Democrat,
horse manure, cow manure,
America is now a pie
divided into eight slices,
but, there are twelve at the table,
and three of them want seconds.
It’s all a game.
George and Martha never had a son.
Truth and illusion;
it doesn’t make a difference,
we still sit in the waiting room
Money is the new Messiah,
greed is the national creed,
“In G-O-D (gold, oil & dollars) we trust,”
but, credit cards are accepted.
The government of the people
has been bought and sold.
It’s strictly business,
The heart of America
the blood clotted,
no longer red,
by the pacemaker
of public opinion.
And still there are those that believe
that the only real American patriots
are true blue and white
or least act white,
and all the stars
are in Hollywood.
I am caught between mirrors
while clowns with painted faces
reflections of the infinite
ignite the cobwebs in my head
surrounded by a veil of darkness
with a continuous oratorical ramble
where lost souls roam the streets
citing some lame excuse
like rabid dogs in heat
for the ineptitude and incompetence
no bounds, no borders
perpetrated upon us
where wealth is accrued
a melodrama of words
and then wagered
beheaded and disemboweled
with delusions of deliverance
woven, spun, bound together
in the light of new ideas
a choreography of language
fused by logic and reason
inciting and inspiring
with natural instincts
these word and images
opposing out-dated moralities
twisting and turning in my brain
and decaying values
curled like a coital knot of snakes
a torrid entrapment
drowning in the stream
beneath the shadow
of the street corner gurus
stagnant water, without any depth
singing the suburban blues
I know it is time to turn off the TV
as these young lions roar
and write a poem
A return to a day in the garden
I sought higher ground
and settled down
next to the totem
of Jerry, Jimi, and Janis.
Above spread the tented
Rock and Roll strip mall,
everything from art, tee-shirts
and crystals, to computerized
stereo sound systems and cell phones.
Buy a piece of flower power,
but don't sell your soul.
The Woodstock Nation
had come of age,
an attempt to balance
its ideology with science
and blend it with the reality
Below the music played on
as the crowd danced and swayed.
Melanie, Donavon, Richie,
Lou, Joni, and Pete,
sang of peace and love,
human rights and wrongs,
life in the gritty city,
spirituality and ecology.
Sisyphus struggles to push
a boulder up hill,
knowing it will roll
back down to the valley below.
He smiles with hope
that from the seeds
of art and music,
good will grow.
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