with its head between the finger and the trigger.
An opinion does not kill or maim
An idea has no weapon
An apocalypse is a revelation
not Death, destroyer of worlds.
Don’t tell me not to have an opinion
on genocide.
Don’t tell me not to have an opinion
when leaders rob children of their human rights.
Remember, Gaza?
Remember, Guantanamo?
Do you really want to put your faith in Hope?
Or how about in that elusive bullet,
Truth, the mist of a strange gun,
the smoking mirror, the grassy knoll hit man,
the Mossad death squads, the Iran Contras,
the MK Ultra sex slave apprentices,
the Montauk time captives,
the 17 of the 19, the Building Sevens,
and the coincidences
that I don’t believe are coincidences?
Feed my mind the whole grain, not the processed;
Give me info-shamanic organic non-material, non-matter
because it does
not
matter.
Your country does not matter
Your anthem does not matter
Your judgment does not matter.
I feel more connection to a Muslim in the Middle East
than to the ravings of a Sunday School priest class.
Fake nails that don’t scratch the surface
Music sung out your ass.
Shut up.
You have destroyed the Revelation before it’s begun.
But there’s a handful of others who have opinions for guns
and they wield them delicately, carving the air
bulletproof; gunslingers of the last days
Children of the Wasteland, falling away
and against the ebb and flow of the peace train
that’s just a swan song when you chip off the paint.
Truth is a bullet thought, slicing the air;
Challenging the brainpan
to remain intact.
