Hip Hop Won't Save You (But anarchism might)

Everybody told me I was free. 

But how can that be
When every blade of grass
Every single tree
Is locked down
By the Leylines
We call property
Which separate the trailer parks
And the projects
From the suburban prosperity.
Which divide the malls and McMansions
From the broken down gas stations
that line every Detroit street.

But still, everybody told me I was free.

Far as I can see
I've got the freedom of a patch of grass
Growin in a concrete sea -
But I can live in any state I choose
And can elect any man to be my president
As long as he is one of two
And maybe what freedom means to me
Just isn't what freedom means to you?

Because when I think of being free

I think of sheltered valleys
Lined by deciduous trees
In which every man can shape
His fate with his own two hands
Free from government eyes
And corporate lies -
The economic nooses
And police state abuses
Of an Empire in decline.

Why can't I see I'm free?

Once they said that all roads lead to Rome
But what about the Romans who knew
No road leads to home
They used to say
"Beware the Ides of March"
But now they know
It's a war of minds and hearts
Every CEO should remember
Tell their senators in the Ivory Tower
That when the Coliseum closed
It wasn't just the Vandals
Dragging the nobles out their homes.

And I'm sure, everyone told them they were free,
But I guess we'll have to disagree to agree -
Because as far as I can see
If you don't have bread, but still need to eat
Poverty is just a prettier word for slavery.

The Seasons (Of love and loss)

The heavy thoughts
Weighted limbs,
Like Christmas trees
Bending below the burden
Of gaudy baubles -
The things we bought
For a season
Packed away and
Quickly forgot.

Well, where does the
Winter go, and all the snow
When the sun shines
And springs winds
Blow in on thunderheads?
Once it melts, while fields
Grow dandelion pelts, it
Trickles down into graves,
Winter past is water for the
Things we let die away.

Beltane fires burn like
Funeral pyres, in the eyes
Of young men slipping down
Sunset streets - the girls cruising
In crappy cars, lip balm bright
Shimmer on the asphalt as
Day dies steadily into night.
Youth, these days, has
Nowhere to be; and the
Suburban bloom bleeds
Into childhood's tomb.

And when the shroud is gold,
Men begin to wrap themselves
In light coats, half dreading
The turning of time, half anxious
To plunge into the slower seasons.
They think of lovers lost like leaves
Which fall down anonymous paths,
Shed by their bored trees,
Amorous and ready for new outfit -
Downy white dresses and crystal
Coats,  the garb of seasons much
Like hearts goes from warm to cold.

In The Ashes of Evening (Blooded earth)

I remember when you left,
In the ashes of evening
I gathered handfulls
Of red earth, of dust
The color of your skin.
I wrote sonnets in scars
On the root bark of trees,
Letting the sap creep
Out and the amber of
Twilight seep deep within.
And, now, for years I
sat and watched my words
Grow worn, covered over
By the march of years
By thicket and thorn.
And now dawn has broken
With thin rays over the curve,
I know that stains which make
Their way into wounds are not
The same as those in roots -
My skin is still your skin
And my hands the red
Of blooded earth.