flash of a neon light.

fear roams the rooms of this hollow dream
of which i stare into, ignoring the seam.
the stitches laugh in voices unknown,
tenors and baritones of the earth below.

I walk the line between the two: dream and earth.
my visions cloud the sky with a pulsating silence
and the light
touches
the horizon
where the clouds share death with rain
and bleed
into the silent well.

The echoes of memories ripples the ocean,
flows like mountains of nothing
until touching The door.
Signs lead the way,
but death is in the wake
of silence.
and life follows the thought;
the muse's touch;
the lightning eyes-
filled with music from the cloud God
i believe in.....
but..
also created.

How does meaning grow from cobblestone eyes?
Late at night, who whispers in the ears of the air?
Why would the Great One ask for passiveness?
Why not growl the thunder?

Why not touch ants with the prophet of darkness?
Why the promise of pain?

Naked light's voices roam the yard
haunting and
screaming
words of derision.
But silence is all that cools the grass here.
Forever.
Just voices no one shares.
No one can touch.
NO.

flash of a neon light.

Success

twittering sighs
whispering flies
the new mantra is
"buy"


cant help but stare
all this was so rare
when we valued "share"
instead of designer
"flair."

we lament our woes
as new, daunting foes
but from history's shadows
is where they
grow.

consumerism's rampant orthodox,
as infectious as chicken pox,
buys up junk, leaving nothing...
but our children in neck and arm
stocks.

Grow the pie is our game,
but not enough we complain.
So exponential debt swallowing
keeps us
"sane"
And bitchin that, relatively, times are worse
since Carnegie's reign,
well,
that's this generations only claim to fame.

"Success is in drought or has fled" or
"the American dream is dead."
This is America's new green eyed dread.
No more disputes of destiny about which we have read,
just small men bickering over who gets the bigger bed.


"Success" is a relative state
born of non quantifiable
echoes.

Alger never saw the "dream"
defined by material gained through
schemes-
in the form of tv screens
or gold plated limousines.


The "dream" is alive and well,
still yelling like crazy old Zell.
but how then is our debt doubled with each
day's clanging bell?

Is the money gone, or the spirit dead?
Was our wealth a mirage, born in the red?
Previous generations bode well,
but what in us makes the future a hollow shell?


Baby, Its that thirst for more.
Keeping up with the Jones's is the
score.
Back and
forth.

"Honey, call the neighbor and tell him about the new
Porsche."

Our parents Dream was to own a home;
support themselves by working to the bone;
saving to send their kids to college without a loan;
all their satisfaction stole from self reliance's dome.

This is the dream, breathing and living.
THAT pie is still lurching forward- always giving.

And while the average citizen yells "corporate fraud"
he puts his 20 dollar lunch on a near maxed out
credit card.
This mentality is not a class trait, but a cultural
mistake.
Spending money we don't have,
well,
that is the New American Way.

We have created the Napoleon class,
you and
I.
Whether
in a mansion,
or a double wide,
we are greedy by the masses;
our defining characteristic: Crassness.

And we blame only the "others" for our pains....
Derrida would be proud of his theory laid plain.
What a fucking joke, to outsiders it should seem we are insane.
But to which outsiders? Modern Capitalism has made us all the same.