Is The Music Always This Good At The End Of The World? – A POEM FOR THE BIRDS, A POEM FOR HUNTING DINOSAURS

April 29th 1999, I am handed a grubby xeroxed flyer that tells me I am being fed lies.

The media tells you what your puppet masters want you to hear. It is the MACHINE.

The military industrial complex. Work, Consume, Die. What is a wildin’ child to do!?

BECOME TO MEDIA, and well now! Isn’t that a thing to do!

You wanna print some 11×17’s brother man, and get some wheatpaste cookin to post these babies in the night?

We’ll capitalize on the terror of 9/11 with some big exploding buildings on our posters, we gon’ do this propaganda shit up RIGHT.

Had our messenger bags with a big pile of copies and go fence jumping like misanthropes


Dodging the hint of siren blue red flashing sirens like the herd’s most agile ANTELOPES.

I ain’t fucking lion. We were tiger balm in our best boys baseball gloves that night.

I feel like I could take on the whole empire myself.

And mother fucker I just might.

There was a lovely maiden in my high school career as the outsider white knight – who though she claimed to love me

once told me at my lowest rooftop point in our close up scene –

You know – you’ll never really change anything. You know this, right?

And now, 65million years later. I am a re-animated dinosaur, trying to get a piece of flesh from the lucky scraps

that fat intern at the computer help desk happens to neglect safety and drop around the kiosk as he steals away his snacky orange-dust hands from the dispenser, we’re just exhibits in the park

Half the ones you admire are wishing for full on shark week collapse

The other half only whisper something true once in a while, in full dark

It seems like there’s a candle light way down the tunnel, at the end

But the guy who reads schematics, and the paleontoligist brave enough to meet the park-people face to face

They are so far apart, walkie talkie-ing stranger things, some upside down cake, it’s all

left out in the rain, the recipe is it’s own disaster

the goddamn car in the tree proves falling in love and sticking around,

are separate arts

I want to meet you in the ruins

But I’m a survivalist barely alive whose A/C went out the past six days and I know I am better versed to speak to the disaster of our century than any rich man telling me things don’t – they just don’t! – fall apart

I want to take a meat cleaver to your leave it to beaver gabagool

you fucking dinosaurs taking a terror shit at the end of your series to break my non-castrato heart

My friends –

let me make this clear

My friends are the birds… And Most of us are falling out of the sky.

The ones that survive… in this landscape you call heaven’s-waiting-room-amusement-park- WE MUST REBUILD NEVER MIND THE DINOSAURS THE INVESTOR INSIST, THE MONEY’S GOOD, HELL IF THEY ESCAPE WE’LL CALL IT


Disaster Capitalism

It’s Part of the PLAN

Those who can afford to – will survive


Some of us ravens have taken to the cigarettes you drop, and drop them into tinder boxes

Some crow about arson’s benefits to flight beyond

Some pelicans scoop poison from environs and drop them in the gullets of the ones who break our



is not to be taken for dead

Because we hang out on these wires and plot our own pall bearings at poor children’s funerals

We lift up those who you would drop in

wells of tears of business as usual

The french fries on the boardwalk you

so frantically rebranded as freedom’s thoughts

falling from your war criminal hands

we bury underground until we realize – twenty years on

you have got no fucking plan

you want to be the MAN

but you are a child sending us to die in another BIRD’S SAND

but i ain’t mad… I am just evolved, from dinosaurs to skwaking claws

to fly off this island where you gives us nothing but dark night

what we need is prometheon’s

the fire stolen ? YOU’RE NOT GOD

it belongs to YOU, MY PEOPLE

creak out the wings that tired, sleep

and chains give back to prison-keepers!

Your Leaders Are Not Your Leaders, But Gilt Cage Illusion Keepers

They Show You Screens and Make Your Featless

They Clip Your Wings

They Sell You Remedy – But LEECHES!

Jump off a cliff – and build your wings on the way down

that’s the only way I’ve found to out fleet them

their lives are not exceptional,

the chances we have, are not exclusively outflanked by where the difference in equations

squeak clean

the core is molten

the feathers, are yours,

you hopeless ones

the god chained to the rock

is you

everyday, it will grow back

get up, take stock

the dinosaurs are flocking

to rebuild the electric fencing

but the sky is not a cage

the future is not their stage

we are not done evolving


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