To the hero’s, god’s

and all the deaf listeners

our existence is absurd

when not a true word

has been spoken

when we are mute

the sad songs

sing with no virtue

we build statues

from time

till they crumble

dreaming of the phoenix

I drift off in day mares

mild hulcinations

without much intoxication

experiencing effervescence

i stumble for a seat

a place to sit

and think

what has happend

who are we

and why are we here

strangers, in a strange land

I raise one hand to uncle Sam

and offer him my middle finger

he responds with his index

and I have to explain

how I don’t swing that way

it’s everyday

with no explination

no reason for creation

as we evolve

and destruct

in the muck

of our muddled times