JBrower
01-30-2009, 02:12 PM
Jesus and the Butter Pat
I see the face of Jesus in my toast,
And wonder why prophets are in the bread,
That sat cold, a little stale, in the mini-fridge.
An omen?
No, probably not,
No divine being would waste their time,
With placing an edible message
On my breakfast plate,
As another day at school awaits.
A Love Rebellion
With one smooth strum of the strings
his black Stratocaster screamed like Hendrix’s,
an arpeggiating electric stream of sound
that swirled, and twirled,
through smoky summer skies.
Sunlight shown over bandshells,
throughout peacefully protested patriotism
that consumed the Nation’s Youth,
bedecked, as they were,
in grungy many-colored cotton
and tight jeans that flared out to swallow
the sadness that Clapton might say
could be inspired by the denim itself.
Gruff vocals escaped the alcohol-soaked,
cigarette-smoked throats of prophetic anti-angels
that caterwauled messages of peace, love, protest
to a (chemically biased) accepting crowd
of disillusioned, draftable, twentysomethings
that stood, sat, or piggybacked for days
over muddy farmland scented with
the sickly sweet smell of rebellion.
Words that would find the single lonely soul
in the crowd that wasn’t getting off,
find him, understand him, and make him get off,
an aural orgy set to soulful tones
of philosophers and musical savants
so inebriated they slipped into occasional catatonia.
And where are they now,
the prophets of smoke, sex, and melody?
Dead, dying, aged beyond their years,
fallen into the pop-culture abyss now filled
with hip-hop beats, misogyny, and murder,
rather than music or marijuana.
Some, like Mick and his boys,
hold strong in their hedonistic excess,
the hubris of celebrity deep in their veins,
to the point where their relevance is
secondary to living memories of
singing songs and tumbling from palms,
except on those rare occasions when
an aging rockstar can’t get no satisfaction.
I see the face of Jesus in my toast,
And wonder why prophets are in the bread,
That sat cold, a little stale, in the mini-fridge.
An omen?
No, probably not,
No divine being would waste their time,
With placing an edible message
On my breakfast plate,
As another day at school awaits.
A Love Rebellion
With one smooth strum of the strings
his black Stratocaster screamed like Hendrix’s,
an arpeggiating electric stream of sound
that swirled, and twirled,
through smoky summer skies.
Sunlight shown over bandshells,
throughout peacefully protested patriotism
that consumed the Nation’s Youth,
bedecked, as they were,
in grungy many-colored cotton
and tight jeans that flared out to swallow
the sadness that Clapton might say
could be inspired by the denim itself.
Gruff vocals escaped the alcohol-soaked,
cigarette-smoked throats of prophetic anti-angels
that caterwauled messages of peace, love, protest
to a (chemically biased) accepting crowd
of disillusioned, draftable, twentysomethings
that stood, sat, or piggybacked for days
over muddy farmland scented with
the sickly sweet smell of rebellion.
Words that would find the single lonely soul
in the crowd that wasn’t getting off,
find him, understand him, and make him get off,
an aural orgy set to soulful tones
of philosophers and musical savants
so inebriated they slipped into occasional catatonia.
And where are they now,
the prophets of smoke, sex, and melody?
Dead, dying, aged beyond their years,
fallen into the pop-culture abyss now filled
with hip-hop beats, misogyny, and murder,
rather than music or marijuana.
Some, like Mick and his boys,
hold strong in their hedonistic excess,
the hubris of celebrity deep in their veins,
to the point where their relevance is
secondary to living memories of
singing songs and tumbling from palms,
except on those rare occasions when
an aging rockstar can’t get no satisfaction.