If only I could type it in a crisper way than this
to spell out why I try and play
a buffer-role and sit
guessing at the aspirations,
how to curb chance-machinations
of our absurd, undeterred techno-globalization.

This age for cheap is offering
to keep open the gate
the flood of infotainment
acting less like food than bait
only certain spaces in which we can feed and wait.

A storm gathers just off horizon
its soundless thunder rumbles
its dark clouds heavy glint of gold,
but what rocks it holds would care
to serenely come and tumble down
on heads that do not glance around?
From this we will need shelter or at least a wary mind…

So it is that I and accompanying allies strain and scrutinize,
future-wise puzzle-piecing new maps to help us navigate a world
brimming full of bullshit and apparently-free crap.
A legacy we hope to leave
(my part albeit incomplete)
to guide those unborn future flocks of man and
the info-shocked, sadly-vision-blocked souls living
who may yet know to use discretion sometimes
in keeping open for too long their minds for just a dime.

All of us, don’t we need sound notification on the nature of
our own bloating meta-predatorary creation?
It seems something is waiting to snatch up idle ripe minds
to be its bio-platforms, do its ghostly calculations,
become its meme-arrays and unknowing-slaves…
The risk is if we end up biting every byte we see
(we think this data-lunch is free)
effectively lambs feeding from its trap we will be!

Digitally-versed, the buffers’ and shepherds’ work
is to clear a path wide enough for sheep to skirt temptation,
to keep them away from the ever-swelling impulse-inertia,
their desire for satiation
that leads them to trough in underheated isolated chambers
from which all but pre-made thought can escape un-rearranged.

Beware these rains inside will fall
black stones straight through the roof,
and the sheep who do not hear the call,
those too media-jacked-in and enthralled,
will be submerged and drown aloof.

“A man can’t ride your back unless it’s bent.” — MLK

KNIGHTS OF CYDONIA, by Muse

Come ride with me through the veins of history
I’ll show you a God who falls asleep on the job
How can we win when fools can be kings?
Don’t waste your time or time will waste you

No one’s going to take me alive
The time has come to make things right
You and I must fight for our rights
You and I must fight to survive

No one’s going to take me alive
The time has come to make things right
You and I must fight for our rights
You and I must fight to survive

No one’s going to take me alive
The time has come to make things right
You and I must fight for our rights
You and I must fight to survive

Come hurricane and they ponder fear me a while.
With a nice breeze they love and bless me some time.
I comb the forest and I find resistance,
howl in the canyon but none take heed.
I’ve got sound but no voice to speak of my journey.
Grinding against the sky I wonder why.

Can’t blow away my rock-hard luck,
factor in the chills of guilt, monotony.
O, won’t you trade with me?
Because the lull just means I’m elsewhere,
and you claim all the stable ground.

Come hurricane and they ponder fear me a while.
With a nice breeze they love and bless me some time.

Many lifetimes have I spanned,
since rocks smashed to make the sand.
Dunes so far and wide, bringing music to the chimes.
Lighting urban skies I wonder why.

Guard all beasts from hot-headed brother,
life-seeds in my pocket, rebirth in my arms,
painting pictures with the clouds in the sky.
And the trees gladly dance to my rhythm.

Come hurricane and they ponder fear me a while.
With a nice breeze they love and bless me some time.