A postscript: It’s a Game of Monopoly and We Don’t Even Have Pieces on The Board

A postscript:

Yesterday, a list of 10 things, including becoming wealthy,
Today, a communist poem;
But these things reconcile, you see…
Until we change the world, we have to play the game as-is:

And the game, life, is economic
Money is better food, supplementation, medical care, rest and relaxation:
In the future, it will likely mean survival even more than it does now –
They aren’t going to let billions extend their lives, but those with billions will

So, fuck the man, but also, try and become the man,
Because that’s how everything changes;
We want to say, “fuck the matrix”, but until we are out we cannot unplug anyone else –
And what disturbs me, is the lack of people at the top fighting for those at the bottom

A wise man once said, “Capitalism is a playground for the rich and a hell for the poor.”
Or as Victor Hugo put it, “The paradise of the rich is made out of the hell of the poor.”
The problem obviously, seeming to be that those who escape the hell leave the rest behind
It has been said the Republican Party is the prep school party – and they don’t know what it’s like:

And we’re not invited for a seat at the table, we don’t attend Mar a Lago,
We spend our lives in stress and toil, to keep the lights on –
Only, politics have manipulated social issues to secure the economic wellbeing of the few at the expense of the many,
Because, we are just fucking cattle to them, every one of us, without a game piece.

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Thank Gawd We Only Give a Shit About Ourselves So We Can All Stay Fucked (These Days)

Days like this,
When I am working like my Dad,
He hated what he did – Rest in Peace
His son still hasn’t defeated the oppressive computermatron,
So I’m in SQL (Sequel) hell – database slave, level -32

Days like this,
When my dreams don’t budge an inch –
But still, something moves, the pain in me
It pushes me,
Says, ‘Fuck this’…

Days like this,
When I look back on all the love I had, lost;
The wreck I was
Dread Pirate Roberts –
But I turned from my nefarious clients, ran from the dark web

But I’m still slutting it up for a check,
A pay for play hoe,
Like all of us – pimped out by the system…
We have to be, it’s the FREEDOM of capitalism, in this fucked Darwinian system of uber competition and commoditization of the worker, till we are all living the lowest common denominator life, only enough to get by… and Trump, the fucking dream daddy of ‘Murica, gave the corporations billions in tax cuts…

FREEDUMB.

And the Communist Manifesto, which the title alone makes those fortunate boomers in the winter of their lives piss themselves – the Communist Manifesto spells out the glaring truth, plain as day:

“You are horrified at our intending to do away with private property. But in your existing society, private property is already done away with for nine-tenths of the population; its existence for the few is solely due to its non-existence in the hands of those nine-tenths. You reproach us, therefore, with intending to do away with a form of property, the necessary condition for whose existence is the non-existence of any property for the immense majority of society.”

And we are the 9/10ths, the 99% – we vote for this SHIT.

For days like this,
When I am just shouldering the roof over my head,
The sink full, the laundry bin overflowing
No control, limited power, all advantages and disadvantages made plain,
Life reduced to a birth lottery

For some are bred and some are born,
Into these days.

Young Prince

I’m letting go of her,
Committing to myself, my plans,
To being secure in myself;
Maybe 5 years single,
If need be:
I’m Walt Grace and Walter Mitty:
I have my dreams;
Secure in my loyalty to them
I’m laying in bed all day,
A black robe open, stoned
Cookie dough and colby jack for snacks
Jackson Browne’s ‘These Days’ (Live) on repeat,
Reading Carlyle’s ‘On Heroes, Hero Worship, And The Heroic in History’
My great-grandmother’s copy
A singular hand me down,
But a treasure, a key in itself,
For her great grandson, whom she never met, would be pondering the divinity in humanity, himself,
92 years after she wrote her name inside the cover 
Talk about a relic (Ready Player One),
A story that had me in its destiny long before I – 
And within it, ideas I hope to enlarge in my own life, wonder 
And Sunday night now upon me, I say Assuredly 
Unto myself eternally:
Relax and trust, young Prince,
Relax and trust… young Prince. 

The MS-13 Killing Fields

Preface: trigger warning. non-fiction violence. historical mass genocide.

… Soy un artista y solemente tengo respeto por las personas y la historia de El Salvador.

There are enough people to some and to some these beings are animals,
But there’s ancestral pain behind it, much more than an anthropological story,
But a story, of a people stripped of their religion, their culture, their everything.
And gangster rap and the Kardashians projected upon them; well, guess what,
These are the real hard motherfuckers,
Society left them one role,
In total fucking poverty like you can’t even imagine until you feel it in your stomach.
Add alcohol and the worst drugs, meth, PCP; fucking no options in life,
So, these kids, without whole societally integrated fathers for generations,
Well, they’re gonna play that gangster role like its their last..
And if you were them, you probably would too;
You think you wouldn’t: but you would.
Just like you play whatever role you play, whatever mask you wear, whatever hand you’ve been dealt.
You play the fuck out of it.
Because you have to: it’s all you have. All you know.
So, just further marginalize them, stigmatize them, or like welcome them back into society,
So their whole culture isn’t a fucking scary Gotham City villain.
The face tattoos are just owning the villain’s mask.
The crimes – the killing is just fitting in.
What other chances do these youths have to move up in the world?
If you had only one shot to be a big shot, would you take it?
Some always will, particularly when there is no other respect to be had, to be found.
When there is no power, fear controls, and when there is no future there is no fear.
So lots of violence,
At least in prison, they’ll be with their people, safe.
They don’t lose any respect by going to prison; what fucking shame do they fear?
Being a pussy. Not being a man.
And worse, not getting any fucking girls. The teenage hormonal equivalent of dying alone;
So it’s ride or die, no big deal. Shit, death, they grew up around it.
Nothing to fear. Only getting hacked to pieces with fucking machetes. Multiple assailants;
Strength in numbers. Gangs.
The original human social groups: what do you think a tribe is –
And they have to have an enemy, someone worse than them,
Because no one wants to be born at the bottom.
But some are.
In countries practically without economies, and in societies with lost, usurped cultures.
What the fuck do you think the inquisition did? Burned people and worse,
There is great ancestral pain in a million broken family stories, great sadness,
And shame to be from the dirt. And only the lowest jobs available. Forget about education.
Just violence, ugly drugs, and bullshit to worship: gangster rap. Tony Montana.
The guy getting head from the fine girls blowing him to score.
What are you going to do? Be a fucking pussy and maybe get killed, in a terrible way (So your enemies fear you),
Or are you going to choose to live as a man; to do what you have to do to compete in your culture – to advance – to survive?
We hardly even live on the same planet as them,
And outside of maybe academia, no one gives a shit about them, in-fact, they’re not even wanted,
Sub-class.
And they’re teens: schools won’t even fucking admit them (For fear);
Damn FBI MS13 Task Force might make a lot of dicks hard in Washington but deportation only grows the numbers: surprise, surprise; El Salvador has the highest murder rate in the fucking world,
Their own government hunts them with fucking death squads: El Sombre Negra: The Black Shadow.
They hunt them in LA too, these clandestine Salvadorian kill squads. It’s the inquisition all over.
The nightmare, the slaying of indigenous people never ended.
Now a small number of elites, Palestinian Christians largely run the country
And the original Lenca language is extinct.
Then came the Olmecs (After the Lencas),
Then the Mayans,
Then the Pipil people,
Who called the place Kuskatan, meaning, “The place of precious jewels”.
And these people were ready warriors when the Spanish came, telling them, “You want your weapons, come get them.”
An they actually defeated the conquistadors until subsequent expeditions, led by the brother of the first conquistador, succeeded – almost…
Legend has it a Maya-Lenca crown princess, Antu Silan Ulap, travelled from village to village, uniting all the towns against their Spanish conquerors, whom they drove out and prevented from rebuilding at San Miguel for ten years, until the Spanish returned with more soldiers, including 2,000 forced indigenous peoples from neighboring Guatemala… who chased the Lenca leaders into the hills, allowing the Spanish to recolonize in 1537.
It would be almost 300 years, in 1821, when El Salvador would no longer be under Spanish control.
Then the powerful coffee families ruled. Oligarchs who raided the coffers. A coup here and there,
And then the threat of communism, until La Matanza (The Slaughter), the Salvadorian Peasant Massacre of 1932, in which 10,000 to 40,000 were murdered by firing squad after being forced to dig their own graves.
It silenced dissent and was another twelve years until the son of a bitch – hijo de puta – was forced out of office, by the student led ‘Strike of Fallen Arms’, in which people just stayed home.
Once doctors and professionals joined, society was crippled, and Maximilliano Hernandez Martinez was out…
Follow that a bit after with a 12 years civil war 75-92, in which 75,000 were killed,
Including women, elderly, and children, as in the El Calabozo massacre, another slaughter,
This time US trained soldiers did the killing, and they used acid attacks too: government still hasn’t admitted or even acknowledged it;
A government slaughtering its own people,
This is the whole fucking history of this country, don’t you see?
But godddamn does that volcanic soil make a good tasting cup of coffee.

Kindling The Light

My neighbor, a Vietnam vet, yelling at his dog,
Who only gets more anxious –
I tell him,
He disagrees
I pet the dog,
Calm him,
Both our hearts race

The Vietnam vet, boiling my blood pressure as my father did countless,
On childhood days when I did not understand my biology was being twisted,
Like the poor, anxious dog, who barks wildly after I leave, to more yelling

So I’ll take him out again soon for another hike,
Where I’ll talk to him,
Stop and pet him, hug him

Cooling our hot blood,
Soothing our nerves
Nature, in its moments, gives us a purpose, together and alone
Something other than life to focus on, outdoors

A place where no one yells at you
Where you are equal to every living thing
Where you can just be,
Thinking what comes most naturally because you are free

For, as the book I now read tells me:

“You are like everyone else, “an infant crying in the night” – something trying to be made whole, something with a deep yearning for security, a deep and unspeakable longing for love, for protection, and for peace.”

But here’s the sad irony:

My neightbor yells at dog because he is anxious
His dog barks and whines – an anxious response
This is energy
It does not always bolster – it stings, burns, scars

Sometimes it twists like missing someone,
Sometimes it scares, like yelling,
Sometimes it hurts, like hitting –
And sometimes it still does,
When it’s over and it’s dark and night, and quiet

When it should be peaceful,
It remains caustic inside –

And love is the answer,
Convince me otherwise
Only, the dog doesn’t know how to love his hurt,
The child doesn’t know how to love her hurt

And the adult still sometimes doesn’t know how
After decades on earth
And the offspring are nervous
And the cycle continues

For what?
Survival…
Because our human hardware is one-hundred-thousand-years-old
And the amygdala, in the dog and the human,
The mirror of emotional learning,
Responds, making us want the love more, anxiously

But the whining dog, like the needy human, who needs it most, wants it most,
Is often rebuffed

And rarely in it’s existence
– fuck, he’s barking in the distance as I write this poem –
Rarely in her existence does the nervous, scared child ever know The Calm
Because for as great as this world is, it’s not that loving

Look at what we love, we vote with our dollars
While our families, our friends, our kids, our pets, ourselves
We all shudder inside, for want of love, which is The Calm
And there is only one among a thousand and two among ten thousand who know it,
Who can generate it,
Share it, kindle it,
In poems and letters, in the everlasting word, in the bravery of their love,
Which they can give away freely, posessing it wholly – as few do,
Even though they sometimes still feel it, when it’s dark and night and it’s quiet
They kindle it again

We call these people poets, mystics, shamans, teachers, empaths, healers –
And if we are one it is because we were the scared child,
Who kindled our light in the dark,
And in saving ourselves, brightened the world we touched
And brought to light,
All the fear, which still haunts billions – withough repreive

So, if you have light – I say to you:

Do your duty – share it
The world needs you, more than you can ever know

For it is you who are the illuminati,
The illuminated ones, the brights,
Up by the full of the moon,
Kindling the light

To a Lost City.

I am myself,
And you are the past
Yet, there are nights when I cry in a rain-filled mudhole,
Wildly calling out,
For the two we were –
Four with the dogs –
For they don’t make ’em better than us four,
I’ll tell you that

If only you or I could have accepted our small, struggling life –
A life of nothing promised –
How hard that is,
It decided our seemingly little fates

As for me, I got the dream writing life, in the mountains
It fell in my lap –
And you were gone
The four, now one

But I can’t shake it,
The lifetime we lived,
It was mine, it was real
And I’ll always be wildly missing it,
Carrying it with me

Our map back to the great lost city,
Of Lawrence and Sarah

Avatar Master

There are two main pieces of me:
The boy, a child-god, who lives on the inside
And the man, an animal, who lives on the outside;
The boy, omnipotent yet a god, imaginary…
The man, capable yet a man, flesh…
The age old question:
How to reconcile these opposites (The magical and the rational), which often pull us apart, unhealthily, for years,
Lifetimes…
I think it starts with consciously integrating these archetypes into our self – as our poles:
The Anakin and the Obi Wan,
The puer (or puella) and the senex:
The eternal boy and the wise old man (or woman) –
The two opposing modes of self, which, if left unconscious, inevitably live at odds,
And are then felt only in the quiet pain of unspoken misery…
These two sets of energies express (In opposite directions or as a split within us) whether we are aware of their existence and influence or not…
To bring them into consciousness, to open the possibility for a truly symbiotic, regenerative dynamic of self,
This is the begenning of something mystical, healing
Like the power-filled magical interplay of male and female selves made conscious…
Puer and senex are not mere metaphors to understand but deep-seated truths [realities] to be lived,
Powers to be used,
Life forces to be loved, felt, expressed, and cared for, in the sum we call “I” – But united, whole, and undividedly honest;
For the boy deserves a real life and the man deserves outer security,
And so they must exist consciously with one another,
In the service of the living one,
Who, slave no more,
Becomes their diety,
Avatar and master.

For Money We Do.

I burned all my walking sticks tonight, like old crutches

And I burned a book called The Veneral Game too
This, also, literally
It sells for $187 on amazon
Value is subjective, truly
I found the book not worth the paper it was on
And I’m glad I burned it,
Because, had I known what it sold for, I would have sold it

A betrayal of values
But for money, we do

LMFAO.

Bosom Promise / Transient Coyotes, Home: Unafraid.

I met the coyotes,
Past two days

Today I was out deep –
Knew it was deep when the grade got steep –
Met two in a thicket,
Tall as wolves
Their heads turned (For me!),
And I yelled, “Git, skat! Skidaddle!” LOL…
And I turned back down the mountain,
Away from their territory

But they’ve been with me since, goddamnit they have

As yesterday, when I alone, to the east, and he alone, to the west, passed,
In silent gaze, amazement
Mutual caution, timeless wildness,
He like me, Me like he:
Loners, Transient Coyotes
Both with our reasons

That bosom promise of a den we’ve never seen,
Which calls us to go on, nobly enough – unafraid.

Postscript:

I dream of them, in their den tonight, living as they have for millenia – and I think of them out there, and I think of me here – and there’s something connected – this great metaphor of the wild-masculine and the journey back home, to wholeness, to the den-heart and all that matters. But also, the boldness of going it alone to get there – but also of being here, of knowing that on my way home is also home.

TBD

A person asks who they are,
Who might they become…
And years are lost this way,
Spent in abstact thought rather than concrete action

To declare ourselves
As hero and author of our story,
In deed rather than word,
Is to know we are not who we think we are
But what we are, as we have made ourselves.