The Great American Dream

the great American dream;

open roads,

rest stops,

all night diners,

cb radios,

tractor trailers,

unlimited gasoline,

Harley Davidson motorcycles;

freedom;

when the reality is 15 year old RVs,

cruising the open road two weeks

out of every year,

maxed out credit cards,

dressing up like outlaw bikers

in Daytona and Myrtle Beach,

playing the slots in Las Vegas;

pretending the hypocrisy

and compromise

doesn’t exist;

the great American dream is a myth,

an urban legend,

a fantasy existing within the minds

of Madison Avenue ad executives,

a pipe dream bought and paid for by Nike,

the great American dream is a nightmare,

designed to trap its victims

into a new kind of slavery,

the modern poor,

the new third world,

the great American dream belongs

to hedge fund managers,

and the Bank of America,

the great American dream died before

it ever had a chance to live,

dying in 1980 when big money

bought a president they could control,

an actor who knew how to

play the part;

the great American dream

is a lie.

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The New Massahs

America has always been about color;

not black,

not white,

not brown,

not yellow;

America has always been about color;

slavery was never about race or

white supremacy,

slavery has always been about economics,

pure and simple,

using black men just made it feasible,

gave it a sort of justified nobility,

did skin color matter to the Romans,

when they enslaved conquered nations?

did it matter to African chiefs and sultans, who

enslaved their own people,

then sold them to white slave traders?

do you really think plantation owners cared

about the skin color of their cheap,

disposable, work force?

don’t you think they would have used

poor, uneducated whites, and saved

all those costs of traveling half-way

around the world, if they could have

gotten away with it?

but the truth is they couldn't

so they justified it with black men,

brought from the dark continent of Africa;

after all, they weren't real men

were they?

slavery has never been about race

or the color of skin,

it has always been about something

much deeper,

it has always been about those who have,

taking from those who have not,

fear of homelessness and starvation

has replaced bullwhips and chains,

fear of losing what little one has

provides the new slaves of choice,

who patiently wait for crumbs

from the Massah’s table;

the new Massahs come in all colors,

but they all have one color

in common;

green is the color of true power

and domination,

green is the color of the new Massah;

America has always been about color.

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Where Now America?

where now

America?

your playgrounds and sandlots

lie empty,

as your youth

grow tired and disillusioned,

hanging out at the mall,

gathering in clumps and clusters,

wearing hundred dollar rags,

wrapped up in coolness,

struggling to be ghetto,

jaded with knowledge,

dripping with sarcasm;

nobody’s fool;

ice flowing through their veins,

filth dripping from their lips,

incapable of genuine laughter,

void of dreams,

growing old

before their time;

south jersey farm boys,

full of TV bravado and

James Dean machismo,

daddy’s good little girls,

playing MTV hoes,

busy being

trash talking, lil bitch wannabes,

joking about

giving blowjobs for a dollar;

generation X,

childhood gone,

innocence lost,

forever;

where now

America?

where now?

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Out On The Edge

out on the edge,

people and places are seldom

what they seem,

lines become blurred,

light but a reflection,

faces come out of the night,

moving beyond darkness and death,

winter winds blow cold,

leaving trails of broken bones,

rising into the emptiness beyond;

out here,

all hope has died;

sitting here,

watching the rain fall,

nowhere left to go,

no more room to run,

the voices slowly fade,

the faces silently disappear,

everything passes with time,

nothing lasts forever;

is truth enough,

or does darkness win?

without love,

are you only

fooling yourself?

nothing is hidden,

that will not be revealed,

no debt goes unpaid,

a reckoning for every word

whispered in the night;

an accounting,

for promises made

but never kept.

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Perfect World

in a perfect world,

frightened, young, US Marines,

do not throw grenades,

into unknown Iraqi homes,

killing 2 year old Iraqi babies,

along with their terrified Iraqi mothers,

as they try to shield them

in their arms;

in a perfect world,

true justice does no harm

to the helpless and innocent,

in a perfect world;

heroes are perfect;

when does enough become enough?

when does truth overcome lies?

when do facts matter more than fiction?

when does spin and myths,

give way to reality,

and dead Iraqi babies?

and yes,

there are always two sides to

every story,

there is always more than

meets the eye,

there are always underlying

and mitigating factors,

which cannot be adequately

understood,

unless you were

actually there;

but still;

there are dead Iraqi babies,

along with dead Iraqi mothers,

and young, frightened US Marines,

left holding on to memories

and consciences,

reciting official company lines,

and other man-made truths,

while wondering inside,

how everything became so

twisted and wrong;

in this almost

perfect world.

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This Dream

the moments come and go,

just a different twist,

a fairer fate,

another turn,

a better choice,

life and death,

darkness or light,

nothing and everything,

something else;

we come so close;

83 dead,

the silence shattered,

as the gunman reloads,

Louisville in mourning,

there are things never

forgotten;

who is to say?

who is to know?

does it never end?

the sun rises,

a new day’s heat begins,

suffocating and choking,

flesh melting like

yesterday’s butter,

chard and putrid,

fresh rubber sizzling

like bacon in grease

on the soft asphalt surface,

one more on the road,

out of the frying pan,

and into the fire;

another one tastes the dust;

take it away,

let it be no more,

bring about an end,

take it from my eyes,

take it from my mind,

this whisper,

this hush;

this dream.

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Days Like This/Behind the Crimson Door

desperation breeds invention,

creativity the key to survival,

it’s hard to give, when there’s nothing

left to offer,

even harder to take,

when you’ve taken all there is

to take;

we’re all just holding on;

today was a picture perfect day,

not a cloud in the sky,

not too hot,

not too cold,

cool, gentle breeze blowing

sweet and pure;

days like this are the worse;

the sadness comes seeping to the surface,

the yearning for escape softly whispers,

the need to anesthetize cries out;

days like this, always make me want

to get buzzed,

days like this, always make me

want to forget;

so many traps,

so many snares,

so many one-way roads,

with destinations leading nowhere;

never going down that

path no more;

darkness lives,

just outside this crimson door,

waiting like a stranger in the shadows,

slithering as a snake,

back into its hidden hole,

purpose has no meaning here,

clarity just a slip of the tongue,

silence fills the endless void,

words die like falling leaves on a tree;

days like this

never end;

the obsession grows,

steady and slow,

without beginning or end,

distant clouds on the horizon,

wandering in this wilderness,

the enemy waits for the moment;

the storm is never far away;

outside, there is talk of change,

as some hold on to the hope,

still others grow cold,

either way the sun rises and sets,

with or without our consent;

when the Son of Man returns

will there be any faith

to find?

this moment no longer moves,

out here, among the frozen

wasteland,

dark and endless,

forgotten and alone,

cold to the bitter bone,

old voices fill the air,

cries of the raging beast,

secret sanctuaries,

hiding within the chaos,

butterflies flowing on the wind,

lost somewhere within nighttime shadows,

waiting for something more,

madness my old friend,

I can no longer deny your

sweet touch;

it always begins like this,

it always ends as something else,

like the lead character

in a Fellini film,

wandering through fields

of golden nonsense,

swept away by the growing hush,

traveling a hundred miles

to move an inch;

the crimson door

knows no pity.

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