AND IN THAT END, WE HEARD THE SHOTS - A Poem

A new reality, there inside my mind, whispers in the wind, a new secondary life, swept among the rapids of society, tossed away, thrown away, giving up on, freedom is just a phase.

2029 - All human life is estranged.

"Where are we now?" cried the masses, one by one, trying to see out of the train.

There were no answers.

"We the people..."

We are machines, plowing through the dirt, the earth, to return to that earth, someday.

We all fear that day, constantly looking over our shoulders, marching to that end, step by step, the wind blowing into our face, slowing our ventures.

"March!" the guns pressed into our back.

There, into the Grace of God, we go, to line up against that wall, our shame, our blood, to be spilled on the ground, shot down as animals, to hear that last roar, the bullets ripping into our flesh, we are called dogs, we are called animals, but still we stand tall.

We feared that this day would come soon.

We were warned that it would come soon.

But we dared not listen, to fear, that end, to slip into the sweet waters and drown our fears, to be held by that river's embrace, no man could harm us, no man dared.

None of God's children could be slaves.

We were free.

We could not be sad here, in this place, a refuge from the cursed war, but here, we stood, against a hard, cutting wall, the soldiers, glaring, sneering, their rifles raised.

This was the end.

"Ready..."

The Sargent called out.

Some of us cried.

Some closed their eyes; to hope and pray, to wake from this nightmare.

Others held their heads high. 

"We shall meet again..." old men said, trying to calm the others.

"Aim..."

The end was close; near, our blood, oh God, save us from this fear.

"Soon!" a voice said, there, in our mind.

"Fire!"

And in that word, we heard the shots fired and then nothing...

Cyberpunk is dead - A study on Random thoughts

Cyberpunk is Dead
A study on Random Thoughts.

Cyberpunk, undefined, is dead, that prose, cyberspeak, the random character at the bar, drinking gin, at Chatsubo, it all is dead.

Don't try to make a movie, don't try to revive it, it is dead, RIP, sleep that deep sleep of no wakening, to dare not dream, kaput.

How did it die??

Killed itself during a electro rave, a suicide by electroshock.

It went quietly, without fare, just as it lived, dancing wildly on the dance floor, then, bam, that was it.

Some will speak at its funeral; William Gibson will take a match and light the corpse ablaze.

A ratty rag holding bar tender will pour drinks to over wrought mourners who will cry, WHAT WILL REPLACE CYBERPUNK?????

Nothing will.

Or everything will.

Maybe disco will.

Wait, isn't it dead too?

Future shock. 

Don't turn on the TV

CYBERPUNK IS DEAD......

LIFE AND TIMES OF A DRUNK - a bar hopper's tale

Notes - inside, that place, we see the world spinning, faster, faster, highly revolving through space,
TIME,
A smoke at the bar, 1987, drinking gin, with ice, cold, drunken ramblings with some bar wench.

Her name is Sally.

She's 42, lifeless eyes, dancer in her mind, working on an ulcer, diseases unheard of by the religious minds.

Two more rounds, we'll need em.

Jack is dying, born dying.

I'd call him.

"It's me, Ward..."

We stand, Sally and I, head to restroom, stall, I lift her skirt, drop her panties.

I feel her hands unzip my pants.

This is Heaven.

This is Hell.

I wake up, how'd I get home?

Sally's lying naked next to me.

Her deep red lipstick smeared over her face.

I stand, stumble, damn fucking hang over.

Make it to the bathroom, toilet is my friend, I pay it in kind by throwing up.

Out there, in the city, people are still asleep.

I very rarely sleep, Ive tried, to close my eyes, shutdown my mind.

Wait.

Who writes the tales??

Jack was dead, dying, trying to live, was he even born??

Fly on the wall.

Shit.

I had to be at work.

Or was I fired two days ago??

Glance at my phone, 12 unanswered emails, all from WORK, I click fuck it and head back into dreamless slumber.

I wake up to the smell of bacon.

Eggs.

Coffee??

Maybe I died and this is Heaven?

Sally is aglow, hung over, but aglow.

"Morning lover!" She smiles.

Grumble.

Bar time, I put on my coat.

"No breakfast?" She pouts.

I shrug. "I need gin..."

Solo drifting through dirty streets, wandering past daytime zombies and the nighttime wrecks heading to who knows where.

Another day.

I sip my first drink.

The fifth I down.

"Troubles?" The bar tender asks.

"Not a one..." I lie and down three more.

The New Reality - Letter to home

The New Reality - Letter to home

Oh how could they, destroy that beautiful place inside our minds?

Deep moonlit scapes, wonderous pool under the waterfall.

I was sitting in a chair, mindless and speechless, a husk of my former self, staring at the four walls.

You were gone.

You have been gone more than ten years.

Or so they tell me.

I don't remember anymore.

The medications make it all surreal, a dream, if I remembered it, I might kill myself.

Sickness in a mind, reports say, I could be quite sane and it is the rest of the world that's mad.

I try to tell the doctors here that.

Maybe they are the sociopyschotic mad men in their deep starched white coats meandering room to room looking for something to cure their sickness, writting it down on their clipboards.

Angry suicidal, homicidal, I have become, or would, if the medications wouldn't step in and protect the idiots at the supermarket.

Blocking the aisles, chattering like rats over some dead issue, tissues?

Who cares.

I just want my box of cereal.

Toasty oats.

With raisins.

Anyways, tomorrow, if I'm good, the nurses say I can have two cookies with my apple juice.

Anyways, good night Mom, I'll write more later, I love you,

Your son,

George

My hopes and dreams

My dreams are very little.

All I want is enough to live on, maybe a beach house, where I can lay on the beach, watch the waves come in, write poetry to some senator while my dog Angel growls at the bar keep who happens to be black.

I want to have six sons and a daughter named Steve.

I'd like to run for President for the United States on the stance everyone is created equal, no one should go hungry or not have a roof, maybe be educated.

It seems no one gives a hoo, but, they do.

I want all my friends and family to be happy too.

Is that too much to ask?

A LETTER TO THE FUTURE - WE SORRY

Dear future,

Right now, you're probably reading about this time in your history holograms.

We're sorry.

We tried to create a better world with our guns, our nukes and a circus we called Walmart.

I'll assume Walmart has taken over as Lord and Master unless Amazon has then well, HI AMAZON!!

I'll assume the next President of the United States, a lounge singer from Las Vegas, was a step up from the current man, an ex game show host.

We're sorry he started World War Three through Five.

We're hoping the porn we left behind is a shining example of our society.

We're still hoping it sticks on our current President.

And not in that way.

Anyways, how's things over there for you?

I hope good for you.

Anyways, don't blame me, I voted for gin in 2016.

Your friend

Some long dead dude

P.S.

Send winning lotto numbers, thank you.

NATIONAL PRIDE AND THE BUILDING OF A DREAM SET ASIDE - Fiction?

A nation so divided even on the simpliest of simple ideas cannot stand for long.

Even this thought, those words, could be decreed as being traitous to that which is held holy, national pride.

National pride can be corrupted into hatred for those outside the defined box within that nation, to be placed in a defined enemy of the state because of the colors of your eyes.

Religion, its own dividing rod, can be used to hate, even when that religion is based on peace and love.

We, the people, divide ourselves based on point a, then, point b and on and on until we shatter into billions of shards, to cut, to bleed, those who come in our footstep, to further divide the future.l, into blight.

Instead of building a better future, we destroy it, wars, famine, disease, hatred.

Instead of building that path to a glorious future, we build walls, we shut our eyes and bathe in madness.

We create our own madness, letting our cups over run with it, killing in the name of Jesus, Amen!

We march.

Our children march.

And on and on, for that nation, which gave us our lives, we kill, we die, in hope that we are right.

No more death, we hope, that war to end all wars, but then, the next one comes, new ways to kill, each side thinking they are right, a national pride.

Is it wrong to have pride?

No, but how do we know which side, if either, is right?

My country is my country but there is so much more, out of our reaches, from our sight, we shall never see, unless we drop, some of that national pride.

Again, these words could be construed as traitous, to be executed by that mob who screams in national pride.

One world, one hope.

I know it is all a dream, a fantasy, but maybe someday, that dream could be realized.

Whispers in the wind: A POEM

WHISPERS IN THE WIND - A POEM

The way we were,
Like tattered pictures,
Thrown on the floor,
Memories,
It was, so apparently, so easy, according to.....
Memories,
Beautiful, some,
Others,
Too painful to remember,
We chose to forget,
Laughter,
We remember,
Those shining moments,
Drifting across the wall,
Projected,
Simple things,
Here,
Timeless memories,
Others easily forgotten,
Brought back by dreams,
Distant,
Only shadows,
Of fragments,
Tossed into the seas,
It would seem,
The misery,
Forgotten,
Brought back by passion lost,
Yesterday brought to tomorrow,
Whispers in the wind,
Memories,
How they change us,
Smiles on the photograph,
Tomorrow,
Is a better day,
To see the sun,
Blazing,
In a memory...

A letter to a true love - a love poem

A LETTER TO A TRUE LOVE - A LOVE POEM

You are my everything,
You are my desire,
My dear one,
My sweet embrace,
You are the one
That I run to in the rain.
I want to be with you,
Till the end of days.

I don't know
What the future holds,
But I do know this,
You are my life
You are my soul,
Without you,
I'd be nothing at all,
I would not know the feelings I know now,
I love you more than words can say,
I see your face and I begin to smile.

A true love,
In sense of the words,
I feel your kiss,
Your touch,
Even when you are not here,
I can still feel you next to me.

I love you,
More than life itself,
A better love could not be found,
Even if I tried,
I love you, my dearest one.
I will love you,
Till time depletes the skies.
Always and ever,
Till the end of time...

A TRIBUTE TO MY COUNTRY: A road trip through a life

A TRIBUTE TO MY COUNTRY: A road trip through a life

CHAPTER ONE: A return to my home town

Eyeless wonders in spanish towns, looking up at the stars while $85 hookers suck on pencil tops, scarred with aged knives, soulless wanderers in arid lands, finding nothing but truck stop coffee and pickled eggs.

Beer by the galons.

Gasoline cocktails, sitting by a pool, neon sign blinking, half off, EAT AT JOE'S.

We were driving down that highway, mile 185, when the bombs began to fall, only in our heads,Jackson was driving, 95.

"Shit!!" He cried slamming on the brakes, "we lost....that word....."

"Our minds?" I replied.

He nodded.

We had lost our mind, 1993, just out of college, one last trip to see ourselves drown, in toxins, 1953, a good year for such a disease.

Las Vegas was a sell out, Corporations trying to gain a buck ninety five for a spin around a tree.

Traps, roadside signs, SEE THE TWO HEADED SNAKE!!

BEARDED LADY, FIFTY CENTS!!

Two drinks out of a clown's skull, a miracle of science, fiction, realization you're dying one minute at a time, living a few seconds as the miles tick away.

The road kept going, cities, towns, little villages in desert suns, rage, lust, a cigarette in some cheap motel.

Use the swimming pool at your own risk, we don't have a life guard on duty.

Ain't that life?

Drown or swim.

Fail or suceed, still treading, the waves crashing in on us, not waving but drowning.

I have tried to drown my demons but they have learned to swim, maybe in college?

There, in the light of the silver moon, she sat, that vision of painted fece filled tub of garbage known as my hometown.

Saints died trying to bring civility here, this godless whore, as my mother called it, it wasn't her town but some shit town she drove into back in 1969.

She never left.

She said it was hers, a shitty drunk lover, but hers.

And hers alone.

I adopted it when she passed away.

She was buried in St. Ives Garden under a weeping tree, right next to father who died before I was three.

We stayed at the Fleabag Hotel, up the hill, crack head behind the counter gave us the key.

$69 a night, all the meth you could dream of, just two blocks down the street.

Nuns were handing out flyers, JESUS SAVES, in big bold letters.

"Do you need him?" They said, handing us one.

We shook our heads no and entered our room, decorated tastefully in 1973.

Dirty tub, smelling of bleach, as if in attempt to clean, the toilet black, moldy smell coming from the ceiling tiles, dried cum on the sheets from multiple drunken, stoned fucks.

Paintings of palm trees to brighten the smoke stained walls.

Walls thin, hearing the next room's activities.

RCA COLOR TV IN EVERY ROOM! FREE! reads the sign outside.

Three channels, all broken snow filled scenes, in color.

Black and white are colors, the lady at the desk says.

I laugh.

She's right.

We fall asleep, like babies, in a crack house on Arizona Street.

WANDERING THROUGH THE MIND: A Mother's misery

Wandering through the broken streets, late at night, 3 am.

We saw the minds, madness, imagery, blasted on the TV screens, drunken rants, now televised as great intelligent thoughts.

On a Friday afternoon, barely pass noon, came the awful news, the sounds of the room dulled to a roar.

There, she sat, before she fell, that paper, the telephone in her hand, her young boy, that little face child of hers, laid dead by a shooter's rage.

She did not cry, she did not utter a word, she died that day, there on that playground, down fifteen blocks.

Though her body remained, her soul, her life did leave, she was not the same after that fateful day.