So Simple


You and I
we were going to change the world
it was so simple so crystal clear
a new Eden outlined over late evenings
scribbling notes on paper napkins around the beer and chicken wings
and we talked through a thousand details until the sun rose
bringing the sounds of stirring traffic with it
so simple so crystal clear
in those days the borders were sharp and starkly defined and you stood on one side or another
and felt empowered
strong enough
to argue
to write
to make passionate speeches
knowing all that was needed was
to buy the world a coke and teach it to sing
with the shining face of resolve
in a denim shirt with sweatstains under the arms
so simple so crystal clear
the voice of a generation
ready to speak
to right the wrongs and yank the prayer mat of the Establishment out from under them
and build again
build cleaner
but equality is in the eye of the beholder
and the one who holds keeps holding
whether it is the purse or the strings
the one with the most toys wins
so simple so crystal clear
so simple
that we forgot
the simple crystal truth was we could Howl with ginsberg all we wanted
and paint signs until our eyes were half shut from fumes and color
but the power only visited
touching briefly
never stuck to our hands
because the machine was always running underneath
out of sight
out of the hearing of the speechmaking lovemaking war is over crowd
jack got the blues in mexico city
we got the fire
and we got the plan
but in the end
mostly we just got older



About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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