Drowning Stone

Hey, you up there,
puffed-up and riding high
the mountain of sticks
that holds you up
will burn so quickly
by your own spark

power swells your head
a balloon that will pop
to save yourself
from yourself
Find where we are the same
Invest your power not your blame

your false reign
will end in vain
your false throne
is your drowning stone

your false reign
will end in vain
your false throne
is your drowning stone

Use the Bomb Money

Why don’t we have a place
For those with nowhere to go?
Why do we demand a reason?
What else must they show?

Nobody asks a bomb
What is your reason?
Nobody asks a bomb
How will you survive the season?

Endless cash
to turn cities to ash
But helping another?
Too poor to help poor

Too poor to help poor

Use the Bomb Money
Use the Bomb Money
Use the Bomb Money
Use the Bomb Money

Somewhere to Call Home

It’s called that
when you return
for Christmas

It’s called that
when a house
shows off its charms

It’s called that
when aliens try
to phone the stars

I find it anywhere
that you’re in my arms

We like it more if it’s made there
and not from the store

It’s sweet in the middle
sometimes it’s a chore

Even when we burn our dinner
and set off all the alarms

I still find it anywhere
that you’re in my arms

No matter
where the sundown finds us
slumbering afar

I still find it anywhere
that you’re in my arms

Clever Boy

Whoring creativity
Rewarded for mediocrity
Spare time art is always free
Can’t just be what’s not to be

Clever boy
Don’t change that key
Nobody cares
Nobody hears what you want them to see

Clever boy
Your skills with a puzzle
Are lost on them
They don’t see pieces only wholes

Credit for trying 
A debt’s a debt
You owe the world something
It covered your bet

Maybe It’s Time

Maybe it’s time to change the channel
Maybe it’s time to pull the plug out from the wall
What’s the meaning of it all, anyway,
If it’s all just plug-and-play?

Maybe it’s time to pull the curtain
Stand in line to buy a ticket for the fall
It’s tough to make that call, but it’s okay
Even Heaven’s got Hell to pay

Maybe it’s time to change my number
Say goodbye to all the things I’ve done before
Get my ass up off the floor; it’s a brand new day
Let my blind soul lead the way

Fame

They shit out the same hole we do.

Well, not the exact same hole; that would be a medical phenomenon.

But their excrement passes through their anus like the rest of us.

Uck. Never mind. I retract the analogy.

Gross. 

Am I Already Here?

Maybe. Yes, you probably are where you are. 

What happens when I get there?

I thought we had just established that you are here, not there.

What happens when I get here?

Well, what is happening right now?

Did I become what I wanted to be when I grew up?

No, probably not. That doesn’t happen very often.

Does that mean I am a failure?

If you-as-a-kid gets to judge you-as-an-adult, then yes.

But I like the paths I stumbled through, and I like where I ended up.

Hmmmm. Then maybe you should tell you-as-a-kid to fuck off.

Does that mean I was wrong and stupid then? 

How do you know that you are not wrong and stupid now?

Maybe I am.

Yes, definitely.

Whitey Tighties

White people in America will demand that you respect the validity of our triggers. Trigger rights are in the Constitution, right? You would think so given the level of outrage and indignation over minor offenses. This hot flush of entitlement is especially palpable when it comes to matters of race. Most of us would never wear the outer wardrobe of racism, sewn from a fabric of pure hate, and we would definitely not consider ourselves racist in any way. We don’t use the N-word, after all, so that means we are not racist. We put our legs into our justice pants and sling our fairness jacket over our shoulders, but we don’t give much thought to how society might view our undergarments, as we have no intention of displaying them. When People of Color are being outright murdered by an unaccountable authoritarian force that we keep in place, we minimize the scope of the injustice by using cute terms like ‘bad apples’ to make it all seem small and easily manageable. Then we criticize their method of protest. We agree in theory that they have a right to protest, but we want “those people” to do it quietly, without disturbing anything. “This is not the way to protest” we magnanimously tell them when they kneel, or wear T-shirts that say “I Can’t Breathe” or use their celebrity as a platform. We bark out “Shut up and dribble” or “shut up and sing” with the supremacy of a plantation owner. Even those of us supporting this free-speech will still ask “How does destroying property solve anything?” without acknowledging that we considered their ancestors property to use and destroy at will. We pretend that this dynamic was all in the past and has no relation whatsoever to the current situation. The irony that our police forces were originally organized to return ‘property’ (slaves) to the property owner (master) is completely lost on us. We won’t even concede that we have Jim-Crowed our way to owning nearly all other kinds of property since. In that context, “property” is a perfectly appropriate target to protest the brute force of institutionalized racism. White people reject that assertion, and instead pontificate on protest etiquette because we have no aim towards actually solving anything. We know that a token reform just to mollify the uprising is not a solution, but we want to go back to ignoring it all, so we don’t even care when those ‘new regulations’ are completely ineffectual and don’t reform a damn thing. We will recommend the same approach the next time and pat ourselves on the back for taking ‘action’. 

American racism must be solved by white people; we created it, we need to own it and crush it into dust. The first step is introspection. When we have an honest, deep-seated emotional reaction to a member of the police being killed – someone we don’t know anything about – and at the same time have a laissez-faire “such a shame” obligatory reaction to yet another person of color being murdered by police, we are unconsciously preserving the mindset of prejudice. If “I wonder what they did wrong” is still our first reaction at this point, we are not paying attention. Capital punishment for misdemeanors should produce a stronger reaction than a shrug. Vigilantes rendering trial-free verdicts for no discernible reason should produce outrage. After everything we have witnessed, we are somehow still quick to blame the victims (“If they hadn’t been blah blah blah …”). Our initial assumption before any facts are known is that the cop is the good guy and the person they killed is the bad guy. That black-and-white reality and its falsehood are ours to own. It is the most immediate and personal form of pre-judging. And if getting called out on this wads our panties, we need to step into the bathroom. It is a nice, private place to untangle our own racism underwear. And guess what? There’s a mirror.