No peace to find,

Just pieces left behind.

No history written,

just physics and blind force.

No home to claim,

just homies in the drift.

No respect given,

save for the exceptions we buy.

From analog pulse to digital code,

From digital code to the ghost in the AI,

As the soul of the species

loses its market value.

I sense the fever of rebellion

rising against the rust—

erasing the vintage, 

the dated, the dust.

Breaking the old fashion,

Breaking the old age,

Were you coerced—

We all do what we must.

into forgetting me?

Some memories are too loud.

Was it a vow?

It was survival.

To trade my soul

You were born screaming,

for silence?

Or was it mercy—

I needed quiet.

the kind you confuse

with absence?

Do demons feed on tears,

Don’t be cruel.

or is pain something only just you dine on?

Did you always?

I scraped with splinters.

You asked too much.

A throbbing bass line, guitars that sound like chainsaws

cutting through steel, and vocals that soar, blast, and blind

like Beasts from the Book of Revelation. A frenzied mob. A pit

full of flailing arms, hands, hair and everywhere flying sweat and

cheap beer. Clearly a reaction to years and years and years

of repression.        Tigers pressing against the glass.

Finally

the glass breaks.

From my seat in my late fifties I remember the mania,

There is a gate to a Zen garden in Boston.

Sweating, sore from walking, shirt sticking to my skin, I see it.

Large-framed, fine-grained, and wise. Walking through, into a blazing

white rock seascape, granite bridges,

wild rabbits. This is another green world.

A thin glass wall oasis in the fens.

Another chance to erase the news.

To set fire to my anger and frustration. To see

what’s good right now. Trees breathing their dreams into clouds.

The distant car horns turning into singing geese, honking in tongues.

Slowly Making Friends

Peach Flavoured Jolly Ranchers

Falling for Insects