 |
 |
|
| jim hightower- shaking things up for the little man |
 |
| who wants to live like this? who wants to watch it flash before them? let's flash back and turn the channel, force the flow into the unknown. back to where it was, where we can never go. force a dream that is impossible, one of losing your victimhood. three times you have denied yourself the right to bury roots of humankind. three times you've been incarcerated and kept alive, drying, hardening. have our eyes been glazed? who wants to live like this? what about leaving? what about going? action over opinion? breath over dreams? dream on and suprise them, in roots and in fires. step into my home and place your foot upon mine. let's build a fire, immeasurable by virtue of our own skies. The Clouds Have Rolled In, Our Vision Has Been Darkened, A Past Lies Before Us, Burning, Us. |
| sprintingsloth -livejournal- beliefs discussion rest |
 |
| ohm. |
| common dreams articles for a free mind |
| -OUTFOXED- Rupert Murdoch's War On Journalism |
| If anyone ever tried If any love never died If any lines ever rhymed Then with time these lines Rhymed kind and unkind Lost in translation and Culminated in hatred Despite being apart Winds blown apart Lightning of spite Gone from us into the ground again Into the ground again and lost entropy atrophy A gift all this pain Frozen around me. |
| "whenever you're ready, She said "I'll be there" the words rang sonorously deft emotions hurled magnificent leaps of stone and clocks seven years of hope and luck lips met like reverse in medium motion speakers bring the sound from another room push around underneath as well waves infinite multitude miniature brooms again the wind finds my back forced forward on glass beneath my feet turn to find my self to meet six years of wish and take still she lays in bed under crimson wake synonymous rescue of one's own doom dried blood asked for recycled tomb if belongings had a home westward, homebound, blown |
 |
| to everything striped yellow and black around me, hovering i call out gently this greeting hello, friendly bee. i say this between nothing and what they might have to say to me. bees flit their wings with blurred and blinding speed flying flower to flower skipping every dull and sullen weed what slows their search is the smell of something sweet when one comes near i hold my breath and hide my teeth before it's my skin their fatal sting does meet but i hide two things and the other is fear for it is the single emotion their fatal javelin can hear. |
 |
 |
 |