Saturday, May 12, 2007


They know we exist but not in their world.

They know we have power, an influence on them.

So they try to reach us. They speak to us though they cannot hear.

They use their voodoo magic tricks to touch us, control us, to get a result.

They know we are watching them.
They know we are obsessed.
They know we envy them, They know we don't understand.

We are the stillborn populous. We grow up in Limbo.
We learn about life watching what they show.

We dance when they pull our strings because we love the attention.
They dance for us, the invisible audience, because they can see our money.

So their shamans cast their spells on us perform their demographical focus-group seance-rites, every night. Prime Time.

Sunday, May 06, 2007

A Mild Irritation

It would wake me up in the middle of the night,
But oxygen deprivation keeps me under.

The splinter in my mind
is starting to scab over.

A mild irritation gets inflamed from time to time.
Always find the ointment and squeeze out the tube.

Drown out the voice that tells me I'm wrong.
Put a pillow over my face whenever my eyes might open.

Get this all down, let it all out,
Then crumple it up and throw it away.

Pander and wonder and fantasize
about what it might be to live a life,

Then go back to sleep because dreams are free.
Reality's price is to try.