Peter V. Dugan - 2
We wereWe 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. Burnt OfferingsDo you want to stone me
because I might be a heretic or an agnostic to your faith? Maybe you should just crucify me, splay me, tie my limbs and nail me with old rusted spikes upon an intersection of fact and fantasy. Will you do this for my redemption? I’m not worthy hang me upside down let the blood rush to my head then you can cut me down chop me up piecemeal feast on my body drink my blood. Take what is left of my remains burn them in a sacrificial flame scatter the ashes in the wind or place them in your chalice keep them in your private catacombs. And then you can try to resurrect me drown me in your holy water a baptism to make me a martyr for your salvation. |
Modern AmericanaThis 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, different crap, same smell. 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 expecting delivery. 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, nothing personal. The heart of America stopped beating, the blood clotted, no longer red, now medi-ochre, and pumped 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. Divine MadnessI 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 conscienousness 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
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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 technology, and blend it with the reality of commercialism. |
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. Once again, 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, something good will grow. |