Δt.
the crashing symbol of time
is just a moment of …
but there never is any…
and we’re always so pressed for …
so by the way, do you have the …
08.27.09.
Author: Frausto
there is.
there is.
there is a weapon.
there is nothing left.
there is simple me.
there is a dot on a map.
there is an invisible force.
there is the power of 3.
there is an eternal 9.
there is the fury of 5.
there is an infinite 8,
and 144,000 waiting by the sea,
awaiting the evacuation
of their temple.
there is an arisen prophet,
a fallen messiah,
a drunken leper, and poet.
there is the notion of night
and the stirring of shadows.
there is one single hope
that perhaps humans are not alone
as an intelligent
being; living and breathing
in this universe on this planet,
and that they are much more
compassionate than we.
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she:he.
she:he.
she hopes not to appear
too needy.
he hopes not to appear
too often.
a question begins to arise.
a fear is formulated.
we’d all like to
imagine ourselves islands,
protect our fragile
sense of self,
and maintain some
type of space
and individuality.
a question begins to arise.
a fear is formulated.
he hopes to learn to let go.
she hopes he won’t let her go.
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how the land’s survived.
how the land’s survived.
we are standing on the
shadows of
ancient memories.
the land has been transformed,
but its energy remained,
trapping still
the spirits of those passed.
it’s how the land’s
survived,
attempting to hold its
essence intact.
we stand on the
shoulders of
ancient fossils
compressed during centuries
on top of our dreams
all over our schemes.
the land has tried to
keep herself together
against men that have
gathered and
plotted on
plots of land
to sell her piece by piece.
we walk on the
ashes
of “a dream
deferred”
like “raisins in the sun,”
“outsiders” on our “house
on mango st.”
the “fire next time”
at 451 Fahrenheit.
a “catch 22”
for “the stranger”
in our “notes from the
underground.”
we stand.
we fall.
the land has tried to keep herself together.
it’s how the planet has survived.
we stand.
we fall.
the land holds strong
to the spirits
of those passed.
it’s how its energy’s remained
from the fossilization
of our bones.
02.22.09.
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agente federal jesus morales.
agente federal jesus morales.
he thinks
i look like a
terrorist
or a
drug trafficker.
am i a disease?
do i have
that look
in my eyes?
of despair?
of needing to be pushed back
up against the wall?
he asks me to follow him.
he’s going to have to go
through my bags.
asks, where i’m coming from?
as if he could ever know
or understand.
so i answer where
i was
before Mexico City,
in Oaxaca, in Chiapas,
before returning to Chicago.
so i explain,
and show him my passport,
and then he barely
looks through my bags
once he sees my light skinned girlfriend
and realizes i’m a U.S. citizen
because then he just lets me go
without doing anything,
but wasting my time
because of how i look.
he thinks
i look like a terrorist
or a drug trafficker
or maybe just wants
to fuck with me,
which leads me to think
the suit is a cover
to cover a man’s
insecurities.
the badge is a cover.
the gun is a cover.
the cash is a cover.
the car is a cover.
the home is a cover.
the kids are a cover.
the wife, career, and bank accounts.
our whole lives are a cover
to cover all of our
insecurities.
02.22.09.
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i’s don’t c.
i’s don’t c.
an
arrow
appeared
out
of
the
sky
at
night.
i think
i never saw it,
but saw its victim
wandering the city,
riding its metal trains,
and muttering at shadows
and their memories.
he took off his shoes,
and laid his body on a
mountain of plastic bags;
some filled with papers, cans, and rags-
his tangible treasures.
others were filled with
more bags.
he closed his eyes
and fell asleep;
i think.
and everyone just stared
with cold reproachful eyes.
perhaps they didn’t understand,
but they’ve must seen the lightning,
heard the thunder
crashing through the sky,
but they just couldn’t see
the scars from arrows slain;
the years of agony and pain.
perhaps it was pure envy
that he just didn’t care
that he was truly free
except from their
icy stares and judgment.
there is no shield
from the public opinion
of the masses.
an
angel
fell
from
out
the
sky
last
night.
and no one noticed
or no one cared.
01.07.09.
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hymns.
shaman’s hymn.
i cannot stand
beneath the mountain
working to raise a
stone everyday
just to watch it roll
back down to my feet.
i’d rather spend days
raising the dead,
casting incantations,
taming energy
from ancient dreams,
becoming free.
10.26.08.
my hand forward quick glowing edges
light-foot’s hymn.
sleep tight
sweet dream
hold tight
nice dream
lay down
your bones
keep down
your heart
hold down
your soul
from floating away
from this decaying planet
10.26.08.
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on a stool (in a bar).
on a stool.
on a stool,
in a bar
that doesn’t exist anymore,
i was talking to this man.
i mean he was talking;
telling me
some real deep stuff.
so full of it,
all deep in it,
up to our knees,
so much so,
no room for treading.
“they kept on trucking ,”
he kept on saying.
he said something like
that, “yes we can. yes we can,”
so i became a train.
i think. i think. i can i think.
i can think,
or choose not to. about anything,
so i decided to listen in.
he took a drink, and responded with
“i am the man, and when you leave
you’ll tell the folks,
you’ve met the man,
and all is good.”
i stared blankly
without filling them in-
the gaps in space
and conversation.
he claimed i was Middle-Eastern.
i swore that i was Mexican.
he worked as a mechanic,
but had once been a gravedigger.
thus was quite familiar with the dead.
he drank to join them soon.
he called me a damn liar
for not admitting that
i was not Mexican
but Palestinian.
there was just no convincing
even when i spoke in Spanish.
he mentioned my people
would soon be free.
we’d all be free.
we’d soon be dead.
10.26.08.
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she; tree; be (i’m sleeping).
she; tree; be (i’m sleeping).
she thought that if she
outstretched her arms,
birds would fly to her,
and whisper all their secrets
of all the lands
where they had stopped to rest,
so that perhaps she could
imagine in her mind,
perhaps if only for a second
of somewhere else to be.
she thought that if she
outstretched her arms,
god would reach down for her
as an ancient memory of a father.
she thought that if she
outstretched her arms,
he’d notice she’d awaken,
and just hold her.
10.26.08.
Share this:
(hy)pe.
(hy)pe.
hype.
hyper,
hypersensitive,
hypochondriac,
hypnosis.
the cool and the glorified g,
mass marketed culture,
pillaging, production, and promotion of urban style.
how would you dress for a war zone?
you could learn.
they could teach you,
but they’ll have to charge.
when you watch a music video,
buy into it.
hype
and static,
and how to properly consume,
and be merry (weary).
trust the economy.
question nothing.
buy into it.
hype.
don’t worry. just watch. don’t watch.
just push a button,
and wont have to suffer the view.
turn a blind eye.
trust elected officials.
let them calm all of your worries and concerns.
hype.
hyper,
hypochondriac,
hypersensitive,
hypnosis.
10.19.08.
UP!::urban po'E.Tree(s) 