Humanity's paradox...

Men are not prisoners of fate, but prisoners of their own minds. ~Franklin D. Roosevelt

Humanity's paradox; from the top down there's dominance.
Prepared or not, we're taught how by Congresses
to believe in the truth -- damaged or shot down by terror plots.
True vanity cares for squat...
They fought for this? Those rebel fighters that lost their limbs,
only to free us for Jesus and expose us to careful shocks.
Systems overloaded by chromosomal affliction;
genetically broken and missing wholesome growth and subsistence.
(Food and Drug: poison; ointments of pain,
media propaganda that spoils the brain).
To choose enough choices! How incredibly hopeless;
to be a species only known for its limits.
But choices remain to be discovered.
With passive voices constrained our cries are vicious.
Just loud enough to occupy a couple city blocks of business.
Regardless though... on the other-side exists live volition.
Any time a thinker is poised to explain
you've got the freedom to decide to listen;
to acknowledge frozen traditions
and move on to reorient this process shown to our children.
O, but to exercise your restraint in the face of open resilience!
From I to Mind: the struggle is an existential one.
But at the same time we hustle for a presidential sum.
Bound by the same system that allows for free decisions,
purchased on the backs of the proud -- deplete of wisdom.
Emissions abound, complete restriction expounded,
with synthetic rhetoric, reason dismissed and replaced by
disbelief in the sciences, not the mystical faiths... Lies
or at least compliant deceit -- in defiance of peace.
Rhyme is release from the bindings of ruin.
Fate is just that inexplicable alliance of music
and language. Utopia exists when truth isn't dangerous.
A union of strangeness, a philosopher's Dream!
Total peace of Mind: a prophet's reprieve!
No confusion to sway myth, where the opulent breathes
the same oxygen as the top of the heap!

I read a story once, it spoke of a gruesome death.
A strangled child had a mind where the truth was kept;
a heart where the triumphs of Our music slept;
a pair of open eyes where the only signs of Our beauty wept.
He didn't succumb to fate, just the Laughing Luck of Hate,
bounding through amongst the Pain, it used his Flesh,
disguised the trust he gave to his guests
who camouflaged this disgust with Grace.

Such is the dichotomy: the reason freedom is contested.
Some call it Sin, others say it's just the menial connection
between us all. All within. None without.
That -- he told his son when he couldn't sleep -- is what love's about. 

United Federation of the Hegemony

April 20, 2412
United Federation of the Hegemony

Listen to my story, it is a tale of two paradigms.

I am but a fraction of the whole, beneath a veil of truth terrorized.

I am not destined to be static, but cursed to be paralyzed

until irony ensues and my worth can be verified...

---
Dystopian fictions fail to describe the situation at present;
Orwell was innovative and clever, Wells instigated in letters
fear of the unknown through swift invasions and intimidation.
Today is a different day, its, beyond any distant Matrix,
even the one written in cinema now is considered ancient.
These words are a simple preface: we live in a technocracy...
where robotic philosopher kings manipulate the Fed's policies.
They couldn't be wrong, they've accounted for all contingencies,
until one day a boy stumbled upon me as I drifted along the city's stream:

Through his eyes I had to seem like a heiroglyphic dream,
he, used to eye scanning as the instant means of transmitting "me,"
for currency is now accrued based on one's latent abilities...
You are the face of your "dollar bill," not some vagrant from history.

In the past I was the root of all the evil that surrounded humans.

Nothing more than a curse, simply a profound illusion

that forced people into enslavement to earn a fraction

only to turn around and contribute to their subversive habits.

I'm being carried from my resting place across the platform toward a sentry.
The boy showed its "eyes" his embedded passport affording him entry.

I can see the domes above controlling the impact of solar flares,
until we entered his home, upstairs where he lived alone and scared.
The boy scanned me with some interesting device.
"What is this piece of paper with such intricate designs?
It seems to resemble what I learned in History that time,
about a species of humans who traded objects for paper,
which had such value as the society's progress would favor..."
He noticed inscribed upon my body a cryptic inscription:
Novos ordo seclorum, little did he envision,
that in 2412 I'd be the salvation of his kindred.
In an instant he turned and ran toward his pixel-screens,
on them a news anchor was in mid scream about rioting in the streets.
It appears the System of Exchange has been assaulted
the means of scanning for purchase power once so exalted
has been irreversibly exhausted...

The boy turned and looked at me as I rested on his scanner...
In God We Trust..., judging by his face I guess he had the answer.
A bright light overcame me for an instant...
he stuffed me in his pocket as my first sibling was printed...

Love Insurance

"Love Insurance" - based on a true story

"Fate leads, but the unwilling drags along." - Seneca

The congregation swayed with every pompous phrase;
it's hard to take seriously arguments starting with "the Bible states..."
My Mother used to be a Dead Head.
Hippie freedom into the grunge era.
Never grateful for the faithful nature I couldn't expunge.
Considered open minded by her friends, then...
Just when you thought a mind was impervious to penetration.
All it took was a mention that I was "curious with trepidation."
I couldn't adjust.
Extenuating circumstances ensued: imperfect family roots,
with philosophical garb torn by insurgents handling Truth!
Zealotry, of that down home American variety.
Hellish speech tearing through society.
And yet, I found Hope, staring through her prying greed,
as she screamed: "The Devil creeps! You'll likely be
torn asunder for nothing but a biological misfiring!"
At least she admitted, at times, that I hadn't a choice.
She noticed mostly that the "other kind" were more a passive annoyance.
But she could be quite Savage in voice.
High school wasn't a struggle; intellectually.
Time moved, as if divided between different mental streams...
thinking with profundity, of grand ideas... a little sexually.
Meeting her wasn't a challenge either.
I guess if we just go along with fate we'll find happiness eventually.
From amongst the clouds of ether:
connected, we... are representative collectively.
Essentially.
 
So, what are the implications now?
I sat and told you that I was your saving grace but now,
saving face is a major strain on your concentration.
I'm sorry I didn't stop mistakes before I could make them.
Obfuscating your problems?
Don't hide the pain for too long.
I've tried to change, but life is dangerous inside this matrix.
At one and the same time my mind changes then stabilizes.
My favorite times of the day include the time that I make;
they lie when they say convincingly they've got it made.
I'm too strong. A lava lake's creation follows if we stay
blind to the horror from the heralds of this awful place.
The arrows from the feral flocks. The rain.
The apocalyptic fall from grace you know that you've got to break.
I've tried to change! I promise.
To be honest, this is a truth that I would lie to save.

There's a sense in which perfection exists and yet,
we never admit it when it appears, so clearly.
I've seen nature perform miracles, more than fear,
more than spiritual delusion, more than confusion.
Something so deep you even struggle to resent it,
but instead you respect it, deeply connected.
With music, affection, a fusion, a union,
the way it feels when you move in... Finally.
A piece of Mind released in time to see, Us.

But...
I see comets. Primordial chemical concoctions.
A linear perception of the evidence is nonsense.
The portal through to this persistent newness is
just the catalyst to your non-existent exuberance.
Love is... all of the above, this
brilliance one doesn't imagine until they struggle with madness.
So I sit and watch freedom approach us.
If only they'll legislate. My Mother will get her fate. 
There's not much Jesus can show us.
Have you ever seen a controlled thrust, with intent behind it?
Never mind... this, is all just so you can understand this.
I didn't want today to end in just another damned kiss.

Just Cease

A house upon a hill, upon a crest, amongst the chill.
Gusting winds like trusting sin, it wasn't real.
The doubt without the feeling, we suffered less,
but even though you struck my flesh; I wasn't killed.

Resurrected connections, a dream only lucid.
The music was flute-ish, deep and fluid, I knew it...
Creeping, gleaming, sneaking you in for union.
Communion, confusion exclusive to novelty;

prophecy when you toppled me, that promised summer;
I stopped to wonder, I hungered, and honestly

you fed me when I needed it. That somber evening

I awoke up to find you sleeping; a nightmare, quite clear...
Quite scared even though I was right there.
Bite harder, scratch deeper so I can breathe again.
That fever, a demon's breath, brutal natures...
Image after image of your wishes, can I choose the flavor?
Shoot the paper with ink, if cupid's wrong
I just settle into myself and do a song. Move along.
Uniform lovely scent, the matron returns;

such vacant concerns, so flagrant your fragrance it burns.

To face it, I study to harvest virtue.
Within me the yin and yang grows, just start the circle.
To sit upon thrones with a crown of nails.
You picked the wrong rose, I'm out to sail.

Yes, love is religious orthodoxy, precision origami
an inch or more, to kick the door to stop me.
A distant war with bombings just to witness whores for intercourse.
The instant force continued so you could stick the sword inside me.
An infant, born a zombie, a different sort of body.
Organs torn to bits just for a copy, but there's orphans dying,
crying in the corners of the formless forests, endorphins.
Trying to abort the soreness; lying; won't report the corpses.
The metaphor obscureness, a corpus for fortune.
Rhyming is my orphic endorsement, assorted in orbit...
flying to erase the torment, morbid in shape, proportioned

for fate. If we pry we can escape the storms, arrange the forms.
A frame of thorns, a broken heart where the pain's absorbed.
A focused art, so much work until it's blown apart.
Bones in shards, so much hurt until she chokes the throat and
screams until we both explode and sleep, or bleed...

To face it, I study to harvest virtue.
Within me the yin and yang grows, just start the circle.
To sit upon thrones with a crown of nails.
You picked the wrong rose, I'm out to sail.

Pain is pleasure, fear is clearly what drives me.
Lyrically I'm me, serious silence but rhyming
is binding and blinding, reminding 

that within the inner dimensions I'm shining, relentless.
Combining of sentence and message, defining

the lessons from Mencius, dividing contention.
Suspended in the sky, free from the endless decline.
If humanity is good, only to be cultivated...
I extend an ultimatum, pretend, the awful hatred depends
on the pain that descends.

So when you aim to extend this misery,

juut remember there's no reward at the end. 

Just cease.

Master Proof

I spent my days as a youth roaming,
despite the fact that I stayed in my room lonely.
Prayers confused, I was prime prey for the muse.
I guess what they say isn't true;
who needs meaning when life is just a matrix of proofs?
Aesthetic reason, poetic patrons in tune with my mind:
a tetrahedron designed for creative pursuits.
They call it complexity;
quantum obsessions over subjective concoctions,
directed perceptions, or modest impression-streams.
Beliefs built on the assumption there's freedom in logic,
but only when God isn't mentioned.
Their arguments are arduous
but think of what we started with:
after years of skirmishes we learned to live in partnerships.
From bartering to sophistry, euclidean geometry,
to pyramid and ponzi schemes, diminishing those promised dreams.
I write to reach clarity, but find that it's a rarity,
for the closer I approach the more I'm blinded by our "right" to speech.
To clarify, it won't suffice to speak carefully,
'cause our language is moot,
owing to constraints that we're scared to breach.
Slowly time encroaches on our hopes to be prepared for peace:
just think of our despairing greed.
Inherent flaws rampantly consuming Thought.
Communication exhausted due to the abuser's cost,
invoiced to the future cause, assuming law
and order isn't drawn and quartered by bombs and mortar.
Either singularity or somewhere between
robotic warders and a new evolutionary breed.

Organic flux,
either struggle against the grain or let fate command your crux.

I spend my days as a man learning.
I spend my nights as a father.
He's the motivation to change,
'cause deep inside is a monster.

He is beautiful, an unexpected seamless musical--
with Kant I used to grope in the dark for reasoned truth.
From teaching youth seasoned proofs and seeking meaning,
to either sleepless evenings or ceaseless dreaming.
It needs repeating;

I spend my nights as a man changing.
I spend my life as a father.
He's the motivation to change,
for deep inside lives a monster.

Morally stricken, you set the course and position,
embedded genetics, no need to force a description.
Scattered across months of anticipatory remittance
to save the soul or some gold?
To pay the toll and to go forth to your limits.
They say the formula isn't ordinance driven,

but to be yourself for a Self to be formed and conditioned.
If only I could make sense of it,
how nature could create such a dangerous convention.
Nature could have mentioned how creation is dependence,
instead I'm caught without preparations or defenses.
I guess there's no mistaking the intentions of the Absolute.
I suppose it Acts with Truth.
Even though I've had the muse, now I've set the dragon loose.
The motivation to create is embedded in established roots.
Now to have these roots sprout into a Master Proof,
with axioms of passion and fallacies of madness.
No father could prepare his son for how rapidly it happens...
How masterfully it captures youth.

...the natural order

"Hell is empty and all the devils are here"

"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

A cathedral: moated, protecting Heaven from endless fear.

Within a cloistered protectorate, the guardian of the Seventh Sphere;

that of virtue, where the bravest never shed a tear.

Around the Pergola de Academe sat a master with sagacity.
Surrounded by the youth eager to hear a masterpiece.
In the distance, sounds of clashing things, swords and mortar rattling.
In the circle a lesson: "never let your capacities be overcome by lack of reach."
The master's hand extended with pointed finger toward the castle's Greens;
"The children there are stewards of perfect virtuous mastery.
They haven't lost their vision; persistent in their pursuit of ends.
But never so blinded that they would use a friend."
Virtue is a striving for, but it's a goal without trajectory.
One can only hope to aim correctly.

"Carnality's vestige." Hope here is truly transience.

A room divided by the six desires from the grand Hedonist.

They talk of Demons. But only phantoms tend to manifest.

Irony: substantial grips on the temporary meaningless.

The Forever War: manufacturing weapons and necklaces.

Bread and swords. Unleaded or synthetic oil.

Beds to eat your breakfast in or simply to have sex with whores.

To the 5-star, they "toss your salad" with peppercorns.

Machines to copy text to message boards with propaganda.

Disassociating self, alienation, a shot for cameras.

The constant hammering, development, suburban sprawl.

Covering Earth with dogs and sipping sugar through Slurpee straws.

Dehydrated minds naked and blind, tell me what you're thirsty for...

But never ask questions... there's the television. Turn it on.

Within these walls, esteem falls; a sea-squall of grief.

Long dreams of results, but more reason to feast on.

Greased and dripping disease, raw pickings: they eat. 

False systems repeat wrong traditions to each pawn. 

Chessboard divided by flesh wounds and cyanide.
Organs shine through the vestibule, ingesting food like iodine.
Healthcare professionals might x-ray to inflate the bill;
and as you approach the matrix, still you can choose to take the pill.
But if you refuse, don't expect to escape the reel;
another tape to pull mistaken fools through the bake-n-kill.
Distort organs with bacon; real or fake: become statistic.
No grammar to explain it proper; poetic justice misfit.
The language: dangerous, prompting a war on your plainness.
Victory's secret mistress defeated by physical self estrangement.

Hear the clank of the falling minted currency currently. 

Connect the circuitry to feed the system's gambling addiction. 

Automated trading, economic murdering perfectly. 

We all stand for this cancerous demand to be the richest. 

Picture the scene. Suited minions of Greed.

Finger-jabbing germ-infested touchscreens until lunch.

Shovel muck into the gullet; quickly revisit the stream.

Fall into the same river with currents pigmented green.

Keep your vision to the screen as digits remain in flux;

all this talk of gun control... fighting to sustain their bucks.

Don't get it twisted though; many slaughter for amazing stuff.

Operating within a system that can hardly take a punch.

Graphs and diagrams make intelligible avarice.

So save up for your next piece of chemical and plastic mix.

"Hell is empty and all the devils are here."

This is paradise hidden from any semblance of fear. 

I've seen billboards with more authentic sincerity. 

Perception twisted by a Heavenly Parody. 

A Shakespearean comedy.

But What Pretty Lies She Told

I still hear her laugh in the back of my mind;

a simple joy captured in time.

This Civil War has lasted a while,

so as I listen for the bastion's alarm, I sit exploring the past;

the sublime master's design, Fate;

many visits to the liquor store waiting for my 5th deployment.

The wait; thinking a drink and I could just ignore it.

The hate; no control, all drafted in line.

My boots, strapped and secured;

so important to have that support engaging in the action of War.

Just maybe this is the last.

Many stories tend to start with a description of the clouds.

But this one... is without, just a mist in our surroundings.

A new era prevailing; such persevering surveillance,

robotic camera details amongst a series of fail safes.

Still not used to the eerie silence of the rail trains;

rendered null by the jail breaks...

behind me used to be the bustling action of the city.

High speed moving every passenger so swiftly.

Propaganda spread via graffiti bombings with

government bribing loyalists through weakened promises.

I can't put my finger on why I didn't join the youth.

I guess my optimistic nature tends spoil the truth.

In college I was skeptical, but needed more than proof,

the evidence took precedence but I didn't think it'd force a coup.

In retrospect revolutions seem easy to predict;

But the call of Dogma is never easy to resist.

Today is the day of reckoning. I dropped my pen and ink;

as my bunk-mate used to say, it's better to never think.

But I'm a skeptic I said, should a captain let his treasure sink?

He said a man is simply judged despite the means for the measuring.

I supposed he was right then; today more than ever.

Rain suits over flack jackets to combat this horrid weather.

Whether to weather the storm's never a question explored...

The pain of the freezing rain's much like flesh to the sword.

Dextroamphetamine deployed to the thumping heart,

today in history: Blitzkrieg stomped before it could up and start.

We wandered for months in this fucking darkness;

our enemy?

Our cousins and brothers are up in arms to defend their freedom.

I still struggle when attempting to set these events to language.

I accept it's dangerous and disguise my subjective anguish...

Experience is nothing if the memory is vanquished;

So what is this thought as I'm staring into this centurion surveillance?

Technology is greater now; to think of what I fought for...

I used to hear her laugh then; a faint giggle or chuckle;

its memory exists like the love but the sense of its muffled.

I still pick the pen up to consider the worst of it

but there's no resolution; The Infinite Purposeless.

Defend the conservative; lose ambition and certainty.

The economy is greater now; to think of what I fought for...

A cause lost in the cause itself,

a war lost in a Lost War.