poetic ethnography::panic attacks
for who.
poem
anything for the masses.
anything for the masses.
art, bleeding from its orifices.
no, revolution, fleeting through space in search of
inspiration for the feeling of god.
anything to be loved by the masses.
why not be a christian humanist, and hold out a god on
a stick as an unreachable goal?
and inform humans of love, which won’t be practiced,
but only held as an imaginary ideal.
and accept homosexuality, so as to represent the ideas
of today’s population
otherwise
god will not be able to attract the masses to his
churches.
go out, convert all the heathens and savages, which
still remain.
anything to be loved by the masses.
the people do need heroes and idols, but their faith is
kindah lacking, come on god
let’s get a cracking.
or the masses will begin to worship political identities
that promise material property.
oh, one might as well become a rock star and make the
little girls
shake
their groove thing.
appear on m-t-v to be cool, b-e-t to be down with
blacks, and v-h-i for the rest.
anything to be loved by the masses.
but does anyone else miss the good ole’ days when the
village shaman would just
hand out peyote and let us speak to
god directly.
06.26.02.
Share this:
a passive poem.
a passive poem.
I.
want to watch me die on tv? want to watch?
there’s a rumor that i began
going around
about my dry sense of humor.
a mute with no fingers
can’t say fuck you
unless they piss on you.
suffer from a disposition
that prevents me from participating,
from talking to angels or laughing
at our limitations.
still awaiting a transmission from my planet’s space station.
i only like the songs of suicide,
lonely liberty lives lost like a slave
to the notion of ideas.
who needs action, who? anyone but me?
lack the energy to laugh at the absurdity,
want to watch me die on tv?
II.
not an angel anymore. wings were washed away.
where are all my happy songs,
locked up in a forgotten dream?
not really comfortable being so dependent on everyone.
please, give me some space and a few minutes to travel through time.
III.
songs of suicide, murdered on reality tv to watch someone die,
to watch, watching to watch-
everyone as spectator.
06.17.02.
Share this:
Chapter 4: panic attacks.
panic attacks
a passive poem
anything for the masses
for who
from out the shell
imagination hanging from a fiber
it all was once
just jumping off
little boys’ schemes
mercury
paper or plastic
processed meat
run boy run
separation
speeding towards brick walls
the final becoming
Share this:
tries too hard.
poetic ethnography::tantrums
Share this:
things whispered.
poetic ethnography::tantrums
Share this:
stolen treasures.
stolen treasures.
ancient temple, burning city,
heart of tenochtitlan
mutilated and raped into mexico city.
quatemoc says, “we face rainy weather,”
as screams fill the air while his feet burn, and ashes
float through empty heaven.
men in guns and suits of armor riding beasts that travel fast.
cortez, the leader steals the riches for his mistress.
the young warrior wonders,
“father, where do we go now?”
father responds, “follow the sun west,”
“people of the sun have hope until the sun is gone.”
but now, nighttime comes, sun has disappeared,
moans and screams resonate.
sound of spanish leather whipping against the once strong warrior.
the clouds no longer allow view of the sun.
so awake.
aztec blood robbed of its dignity and pride. european blood lost all power.
mestizo blood’s been dying. and so,
now swim in pool of silence with no escape but drowning
that when i look in the mirror, see
an ancient figure, which makes me, feel so sad with its
bleeding wounds and lost ways.
and in the end this empty dance
for rain turns into pain, genocide, mass suicide, more priests-
assimilated hopes and dreams.
1997.
Share this:
science as truth.
poetic ethnography::tantrums
Share this:
how many jose’s have gotten lost to the city at the age of 23?
how many jose’s have gotten lost to the city at the age of 23?
the essence of humanity
does not exist anywhere on tv,
despite programming
or what the media’s been saying.
remember, a news show
is after all, still just a show.
so despite the fact that reality based shows and infomercials speak directly to me,
find the voices slowly drowning out my thinking,
impairing judgments on what really is real.
so chose to seek refuge, exiled in self.
some might have sought jesus, but i
much more prefer zarathustra and a personal underground,
thus prayers directed to winter winds.
searched web for truth,
returned as html code and java script,
still some escape towards scriptures.
the essence of humanity
doused and abused in mediocrity.
anything that’s happened or been achieved,
occurred in vacuum pockets all over the world,
but opportunists rise to claim achievements
as cofounders and descendents.
philosophy reduced to existentialists, christian humanists, and /or human apologists
for dreams and psychologies gone astray and betrayed.
history ignores all the plain john does, jimmies, bills, marys, mohammeds, marias, joses.
the majority of history sucked into a black hole.
where are the masses lurking?
exist simply as spectators in our psyches.
is there a mountain high enough to climb where one can continue to meditate without the west creeping in with threats and rhetoric on terrorism?
did zarathustra leave a path? where have all the gods retired or retreated to?
intellectuals practicing zen and the art of
dreaming, drinking new age wine,
discussing picasso, camus, or coehlo,
discussing some exercise in breathing and plans for better living,
while narcissism and cynicism run free on the streets.
everything generic with a feeling of synthetic and me with a taste for something organic.
intellectuals forget that being such does not mean one is not also a member of the masses so
here’s a diploma, now hit the streets and act professional,
lose the swagger and the slang.
some of what is said is not sincere or said in jest,
but some is simply just heart felt. it’s up to you to figure out.
the essence of humanity,
beyond good and evil? rhythms and poetry
originating in witchcraft. sorcerers chanting incantations to see energy transformed
to beat boxes and dropping freestyles as the tribe continues to divide,
sending you off now to find and discover
the essence of humanity.
11.07.02.
Share this:
escape neurosis.
escape neurosis.
find peace in the retreat of soul.
spirit fading to burn, speech becoming slurred,
the heart, the temple- incapable of love, worshipping
stars like beautiful flowers.
not capable of love, distracted too easily by colors and shades.
in dream state found,
who are the holy soldiers of crusade?
where are angels? incapable,
of anything else, but self hate and anger,
covered under a veil of optimism.
but not an optimist.
just get distracted by colors through prisms.
shed light while the whole world is covered in lies.
drowning in shit- incapable of dreaming,
because demons haunt sleep, shake body into restlessness.
not capable of growing wings because sometimes ugly
seems so beautiful.
and what is wrong wish were right.
not capable of feeling like you.
09.21.01.
UP!::urban po'E.Tree(s) 