To Whom it May ConcernF17

To whom who will read this,

I will start this by saying good bye to old friends who have chosen a bigger route for themselves even if it means giving up to later realise they were correct the first time ..but for us it’s important that we remember this is not year zero but much later in the years. Among us we learned from each others talents and how big the hearts are in these circles we roam. Yes the work is not done nor our struggles to be who we are yelling, ‘Not on my fucking shift shitheads.” for years now. It is not in vain nor was it ever even though were surrounded by more bold enemies we need to look behind ourselves to see what we originally wanted..the average person wants to learn. A new generation is worried about their own futures knowing that if they don’t stand now they will be kneeling. They are watching it crumble the way we said it would but these tumbling walls are falling faster than we could predict. All of our own wins and accomplishments says loads of what is happening as I type this.. Now it’s time to help the newbies with what we learned the hard way. Diversity of tactics,speaking truth to power and asserting the fairness of what a democracy should be. We can teach patience, compassion ,the logic of listening to themselves as well as allies ideas, and when to make fists . We are almost what’s left of the old guard entrusted to help the fighters of this generation learn from our mistakes. It is the same fight except there has more legislation against any dissen.We have been here,never left the front but tactics have to evolve autonomously or in small circles. This can be done as batshit as I sound,we’ve done tons together now imagine all the new folks into would be something to behold .



‚ÄčIf you follow this messy bastardized set of words. Thank you 

To Whom it May Concern 176

Behan sipped his drink that Hemingway bought because we were all skint and twisted as a car wreck then he asked,” Why are you still even here?”. I really had no answer so I smirked ,”Because Ernie is still here and he keeps buying the bottles.”So he laugh then the smile on his face turned to a scowl, “You don’t belong here there’s work to be done.” Mr. Behan had the knack as the Irish do to say something without saying it.It’s the reason Fitzgerald already pissed off the conversation to sulk in the snug away from our lot. I did my best not to answer in my usual manner that I usually give Brendan.I really had no answer so snark and whiskey it was,”You lot drove me here and just like the other lot it’s always the stay stay stay we’ve work to do and your the one we picked so accept it.” Hemingway threw the empty bottle and the fire ,ordered another and sternly almost yelling,”He is here for the same reasons why they couldn’t kill me,I go when I want to go.”The silence could cut holy stained glass and it explained everything in one brief moment. I eyeballed the glass and drink remembering when I first met moaning old Yeats and Behan. Brendan handed me a drink and we spoke of poetry taking down all walls and tyrants if placed correctly.We spoke of context and love.The whiskey and Guinness flowed to the point of realizing myself that in fact these were the stories.The world was an open canvas for drinking,fucking,and,fighting.The poetry in motion topples barricades ,words can crack stone and conscience.The world is the poetry and the worded art of freedom.Behan in the most gentle way that he could said,”Shut the fuck up,one battle at a time and you have to find it for yourself”


there is nothing to be said when it’s been said with recycled words melting into morbid shapes and what
whats to be done?
I can’t help myself so it’s just wandering forward to the bright unthinkable where light never shines and its always last call for the wings on the barfly
an abyss in a person can never go away it drags everything inside even if it hurts it embraces the horrible but always shows up with a smile and a battle plan
a scowl to be reckoned with plus scars to prove the worth of the worthless standing before you saving hope for the hopeless
some people are better left be as they are
chain to themselves to a pushing stone uphill at all costs because the ending would be unsettling then urban myth that you can get everywhere but here
the lies ring off the brick and mortar into a choir of angelic meloncholy raining through back alleys jumping freedom cages it runs on
the natural habitat of the left alone is anywhere that will just leave them alone in the wild running through castles that cover the landscape that the insides will never be seen
Not meant for here is harder than guising that everything is lovely and grand and no one will let you leave knowing freedom lies within and not out
there are other places but they have to left go of them
holding on pains everyone
standing around worthless because reality had you useless at birth
stand up with bleeding knuckles and knees just to pretend this place is home
in the end with no winners
its plain old broken down heart born of hurt

Lud ?

Gravitational pull and wanderlust pull the droplets from the leaves onto the stone in millennia of the crash the rock will eventually wander through the stone
reshaping the road for others to come
It tick tocks on the brain stem as a constant
even the scarecrow wants to run from the standstill to anywhere anyplace for just one moment of not feeling like a scarecrow
a bag of personal gloaming to drag along the road to god knows where but we have to move to new spaces away from plaster faces finding the cracked moments
in between twilight of harm and flame
new burning cities dark with ash
that is where I will always be