Real poem

I want real poets

Not bullies and dreams

I want to hear the poetry of lost souls

Who talk about homelessness and the warmth of a gun in their mouths of the sensation of a needle in their vein

I want to hear real poets

Not pseudo intellectuals who do what their told

I want to hear a real poem

Where a man gets drunk and fucks the woman he loves and then wakes to her gone

I want to hear about the dark corners people visit

I want to feel real poetry

Where people are broke and sleeping on concrete mattresses

Where shuffled homeless try to find warmth food in these cold winters coming with the east wind so quick it could kill

I want to hear real poetry from the hitchhikers and drifters

Who thumb down the road and move with the wind of cars whizzing by

I want a real poet

Not one of rhymes with sycophantic supplications of god and country

I want to see a real poet who fights for bread and dollars along with the revolutionaries in the streets who do not sleep

I want real poetry from men and women who fight for the one love with words and gumption of all that they do

I want to hear real poetry of fragmented souls trying to coalesce once again

Pseudo intellectuals

He who is of books

Is ignorant of the streets as its heart beats louder and screams are the people

In which they lie on the concrete under bridges and squat in abandon building poverty warming them with a needle in their vein and a belly empty since last winter that was colder than now

The intellectuals in universities and schools so foolishly idealists withholding such an ailment poisoning the mind

For they see only a world in which a scale is put to see the tilting of the tide

If done no wonder they hug trees and stand for the institution that told them of the books they read now

To see their governments from father time

Clock ticking backwards only sees the good done

As the people lie dying off the face of the watch that stands still

The street and I see the people shivering from the cold of a government’s word for repair that bares no warmth or satiation

Futility

They came from far and from near with country on their backs

Tools for futile actions such as politics always are

The plays of men to be the overcompensation of their superficial approval from daddy dearest

Or mothers overbearing and corrupting their young for the selfish things they could never possess

Their work done detriment long ago

As it was necessary for some reason that other men rule other men and women rule other women for their cliques

They so failingly tell themselves with no repute

Boredom

It was on the road that mad men burned and were heard as they lit roman candles across the sky and we were mad as men ever were

It was American who could not see the life ahead of them as they lived it

Building their bodies and degraded their minds

In doing so, distracted by gladiators like Rome once did

Slaves who were peddled by kings to be bloodied for the mob to subside their pains and sufferings

Large men who can only plunder and pillage minds of the youth to marionettes with strings above them pulling one by one

To be collected and uniformly transformed into walking, talking, overgrown mouth breathers without a thought of the hell they inhabit with shiny things to look at and beautiful creatures ever exploited

Man never before was so dumb and dull

I never knew a night with any in which my mind did not drew black before their sullied words of sport and misogyny

Ignorance and arrogance

Ugly as they thought themselves gorgeous 

Dead in the ground

Dancing hippies through the fields of joy and no worry

A place thought for people as of me

Tried the peace thing and departed did the feelings of hate

Yet rebellious ways grew roots underneath the earth and so they came to the surface

To see a man not fit for this revolt

Burying that dirty old hippy

Left is the angry righteous man of freedom and no acceptance among these nerdy people who read books all day and do not learn a thing

Except to memorize what is told and do exactly as they should

Me…I could not live a life of a number lined up row by row

I must stand on one foot balancing and shout as the other foot stomps down

A thunderous roar echoes in the room where silence bounces off the walls

A man at a podium ready for the revolution and it is coming

My question is whether the people will take up arms or whither to the death conformity has for told

Apollo's glare

It has been said and retold of the beasts out there on the streets but no one sees

They are too busy with getting fat and famous

Getting too dumb too quick

Finding a women's heart through her naked body

Being too cool too high too foolish too fast

They forget what is going on around us

Distraction is the game and the young do not stand a chance 

The warriors walking with the wombless and the hungry

Sometimes fall ill to distraction

Watching gladiatorial games while Caesar feeds war and conflict not of the people

Distraction she dips her venom in all of us

Sometimes to the point of delirious complacency

To job security

To meal stability

To shelter capabilities

But forget revolutionaries do not write and stand still

They do not eat feasts but search the dumpsters for scraps with the unwashed

Revolutionaries do not quietly into the cold dark night

They shout in the square upon Apollo's glare

Show me the ground

Revolutionaries seem to be that of color

Black

Brown

Whatever you are 

But if you are white

Then you have no right to complain

You are white 

Caucasian

Cracker

Gringo

Life is easy for you

You got all the money

Right....?

Wrong!

I am talking about the lost warriors of literary battle fields 

The artists whose parents said goodbye to

The drop outs told to grow up 

The lost souls given to the work force to figure it out

Who is here to speak of you?

Who is wondering will you make it?

I know this feeling like a tattoo from birth

If I was ever found to have grown up recite my poems to me

If I were ever to wear a tie, steal it from me

And if I am ever to put my pen down from paper and shout out 

Show me the ground