Hit that road boys
Keep searching for it
Those days before
Believe it boys, the memories are now
Drive again, by those ghetto sites, graffiti nights.
Those asking for change
Friends drink and exchange the news
Those are the times,
The fiction you now crave, you long for
Keep going boys
Keep pushing
Drinks on the blood
Good times will roll
Headlights, haze, gypsy girl daze
We heard it
We saw it
Searching the crawl
The youth
Searching the search
We’re deep in it now
We’re in it again
Make those memories boys
Make it real
Hit that road
Keep searching boys

Standing in the shadow of a tower
I wonder if my father’s ghost is up there?
Looking down or watching?
I walk a broken path
The concrete has crumbled, trash has collected
Walking with broken men, their path the same
To nowhere
We continue forward
The palaces above peer down on us
The men in those places unaware of our path
The women unaware of us
And still we walk
To nowhere
Past the tower
Past our ghosts

Chinese Flower
Old men watch the sunset
We dreamed on these streets, we walked through back alleys
The bakery is somber today,
The old men still gather in front
But today something is different
Swap meet memories haunt me here
In that Chinatown
The stink of its trash
The perfume of times long past
The perfume of histories
Of hers
And mine
Paths, which are different now
And have gone their ways
Here’s to Chinese Flower
To those times, and the streets where our paths crossed
The old men watched the sunset that day
In front of this bakery
And we walked the streets together

Destroyer of thought
Snuff out the flame
Kill the seeds before they grow
As they will come for you
Destroyer of thought
Build this machine
This device of unstable
This device of ruin
Poison them, prison their thoughts
Before they grow to come for you
You
Destroyer of thought

He rocks back and forth holding mothers hand

His cries are the thunder his tears the rivers and streams

Child of Chaos

Curious of his world, a world on fire

Curious of life and death, so much to explore

The ground will rumble, our skies will fill with smoke

Ash will sometimes rain down,

He will be wobbling along, holding mothers hand,

Looking out over his world

Child of Chaos

limitations
a girl walks near
nervous
for the first time on her own
in the big world
the big big world

rich in freedom only
rich in potential
rich in charm

hard wood floors
migrant families live near
nights are filled with sirens
the nights are filled with 60 watt dreams

the lamp was her mothers
the room is hers
like her mother before her
on her own, independent

the building stinks of use
of years of tenants
of life
of other starting out, just like her

it’s not much
but it’s all hers
for the first time
she’ll do great things here

it’s her small place in the big big world

Lost Neighborhoods

Ghosts.

Faces of the children you knew when you were young.

Where are they now?

Nevermind, faces change anyway.

What about the backdrops?  About those spaces, the park equipment, trees, and the graffiti?

It is said nothing is permanant.

What about the dreams we had then, do we still have them now?