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No Need for Mixed Media,
and yet,
...Lorca and Dali,
yes,
juxtaposed Salvador and so many more--
irrational-- before that last master, Rodriguez,
mix
it up—
befog the mind’s eye
as I dare comparisons,
pugnacious and allied in this rebellion
to
the too-straight shooters
marching out of the borguoisie.
How, then?--
on my reckoned turnstile,
here;
a pic,
my poem, here--
here it is, with
links to green, tinged words and masochistic needs--
no limitations! None!
In 2008 aero planes dropped
facsimiles of his white-winged sonnets
and
Spain cried,
weeping decades later,
many with mixed memories, now.
Mix it up? Yes!
Mix it up.
They shot the muse twice in the ass,
and then the whole world went to war
as though summoned to anarchy.
© 2009 by E.D. Ridgell
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Hear Me, but do not heed me- that is more merit
than is wise. I would you lend an ear but spare the cells close by. I am in search of the
soul of the self. This is but a path I plod to sort the sounds that simmer within. Hear
me, muse upon mathematics of my mind, at times it seems like some paramecium’s scum where
I swim backwards, to and fro, in many synchronous schemes.
Hear me, as I strum my
chords and stroke my words in a futility to reveal, free and open, that mumsimuss of brainwash I can only seek to unravel. Hear
me, as I sing into the shrinking time that is but overtime- I suppose. Hear me in your own mind’s eye, the
modulations you mediate, misled by my coarse, rough punctuation of so little regard. Hear
me, expecting nothing in me. I
do not sing for your praise- another highwayman held, I hope, in this silkily triggered, small, trap of voice. © 2009 by E.D. Ridgell
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bA4L7bo6GLI The Dream Killers
They can not agree to disagree
amiably.
Resentments weigh their words down.
They digest the voices personally,
Reallign and circle round,
Like vultures spying the last gasp.
Rationalizations abound,
stewing up hurt-meant incivilities;
spite waiting
in the wings.
Silence is their loudest sound;
the sound of screeching brakes
in the downpouring rain.
Too ingenuous to venture far,
they foist so many words about
only to go white on the page
when opposites
surface
to confront them at eventide.
These are the dream killers.
They are always there
waiting
to shoot the dove,
taking aim with rusty missiles
rammed into wet gunpowder.
They down everything around,
and they would muffle the mourners-
they’re placards waving in the air,
like Emperor’s eagles of long
ago,
left stuck into the Russian snow.
These divers gents and gals
are indispensable though
for
they mirror all that would go wrong
while ignoring what might go right.
“Negativity never won a battle”
just as it and they never win a war.
Never, no never, abandon the dream,
and never waver from that dream-
the dream is still alive.
The dream is still…
The dream is…
The dream…
© 2009
by E.D. Ridgell
The above is reworking of "They Got Family Values".
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