September 25, 2011

September 25, 2011 in gratitude to Whitman and Ginsberg

Under the austere glow

of New York sunset,

between towers adjusted for perspective:

We are commanded by Whitman to:

“Sound” our “barbaric yawp,

over the roofs of the world.”

Indifference is only apt

for those not afflicted.

And so long as you are conscious,

the friction is poised to ignite.

Here:

in the rhythm

of drums, cans, flutes, guitars,

feet, and vocalizations,

is potential.

Avoiding the pitfalls

of possessive language,

creating a new sense,

which is older than language itself.

To bind by frank understanding and love

and contact and awareness,

which dismantles the machinery

of dead-pan eye consumption

with wanton lust

for the electric candy colored

glorification of god.

We are the dissent,

which is the organic byproduct

of production.

We are the scattered masses

churning in the belly of Moloch.

We are young girls cornered and maced

by obscene police,

protecting the unseen entity.

We are 80 plus arrested for speech,

criminals only in the stench of

a mad Orwellian dream.

We are the collective body

howling over the expanse of:

streets, parks, rivers, oceans,

states, countries, continents,

and universe.

The collective yawp,

back to the first moment,

demanding to be reborn,

awake and aware.