Chroma

Rose-tinted brilliance strikes against the sky,
while cool blue illuminates darkened buses.
Golden-burning stars stretch across the black,
while verdant greens drain from the surroundings.

As the shades and hues explode in our minds,
synapses connect and recall blushing memories.
Flashing lights and flaring intensity follow,
to the thumping backdrop of life's beat.

Warmth seeps from the atmosphere,
so goes the luster of your laughing cheeks.
Frames darken alongside prospects,
leaving one bleak outlook trapped to concrete.

A visionary's raised fist surrounded,
by fiery oranges, poignant grays, and stark whites.
Imaginative creations of what ought,
earth tones overtaking the brain's palettes.

Beautiful, dirt brown mixes with lost greens,
blooming yellows and reds remembered.
Pristine blues restore life to the flesh,
skins of every tint and tone all burst smiles.

So when the changing of the seasonal guard comes,
may the radiance of every color return.
Never to be cast away again at the smallest slight,
nor to lose their significance to the iris of all.

The Soundtrack

"There's something happenin' here, what it is ain't exactly clear."
As I stay in lockstep with the stop-and-go traffic down the broad commercial strip leading to the interstate, Buffalo Springfield plays poignantly in the background. Here I am, leaving the breakneck pace of my college lifestyle behind, and with it, the remains of yet another failed relationship. It is time for me to return home, to see friends and family on this holiday of Giving Thanks. Between the music and the gentle vibration of tires on the highway, you are almost lulled into believing that this long, strange tip is mostly out of your control.

"I'm feeling rough, I'm feeling raw in the time of my life."
Here I stand, facing oblivion. A strange gray film had settled down in front of me, blotting out the landscape ahead. I soon penetrated this weird fog, continuing my journey of hopping from one small town to the next. I could keep going down the interstate, surrounded by nothingness on either side, but I prefer the backroads. There is something about traveling through the various hamlets, with their close-knit daily lives laid bare for all passers-by to see.

"I am yours, you are mine, you are what you are."
I'm sitting in my car in front of a shopping mall, with the wind whistling about. This place is like a blown-up version of home, with rural community being supplanted by larger and larger commercial developments. I contemplate calling her. Maybe after dinner.

"It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate one."
As Creedence tears into the opening chords of "Fortunate Son", I glide through the farmland surrounding yet another village. I see decaying farm equipment sitting beside rusting buildings. The closer and closer I get to home, the more everything changes from suburban corporate concrete to the collapsing rural setting I'm more familiar with.

Time for Change...To This Blog

I'm too busy and have put writing off for far too long, so I'm going to convert this blog into an outlet for all my creative writing, not just political thoughts that I don't have time for anymore. So with no further ado, here is the first installment of my new blog.

American Synthesis

Making love to the absurdist noise,
crying out in the fading street light.
The spectre looms as we sleep,
the sad-eyed posterchild weeping smeared tears.

To the heroin drama we give praise,
the intoxicated comedy we laugh in disbelief.
Breakbeats pounding in the boy's eardrums
leave a desire for rhyme and its riches.

Rhythm of flesh and breath give life
to a new being, a costumed freak god.
He/she rises above the pulsating crowd,
a Gypsy Baron/ess lording over the muddled mob.

Powpowpow, the righetous bring arms,
seeking a skirmish with the new scum.
The horde of angry eclectic electric soldiers
ensuring the fall of the indoctrinated.