Music can inspire.
Where are the musicians?

Art can inspire.
Where are the artists?

Actors, writers,
Where are you now?

Poets with voices,
Where am I now?

I’m at a loss,
Unsure how to proceed.

The tanned one in DC
Has destroyed the norm.

He’s gone Friedman on us
Creating chaos on every front.

Only this time we cannot rely
On the Government for help.

They are the threat,
At least one shade of it.

And the creatives just exist,
No big protests, no angry songs, only silence.

Well, eff that,
I hate where we are as a country.

Mass shootings, bi-polar politics,
Race baiting leaders, sanctioned kidnappings.

All under the guise,
That the tanned one is looking out for us.

He’s not, he’s about him,
He’s about his uninterested vision of anything Red, White, and Blue.

No, he’s only concerned with green and white,
Which should concern us all.

Come on artists, musicians, use your platforms,
We live in a time at least as bad as the Sixties.

Protest was alive, the country was more important,
More important than what, an effing spray tan.

Come on, kid
Wrist curls on a preacher bench?
Do you think you’re private area will stand up?

I’m mean, the way you are staring at yourself
While you do that bullshit exercise
And command all the space has got to be getting you off.

How about you take your little dumbbells,
Find a place to be alone, and
Stare at your phone while you do your little wrist curls?

At least if you took your hard work over there,
Maybe some other people could actually use that bench,

I know these people who run,
Some of their stories I know,
Most I don’t.
One became drawn to running
With one hand in a bag of chips
While watching a weigh-in
For a heavyweight fight.
He realized he weighed more than them.
He started running the next day.
He’s like the wind.

Another is a woodworker,
At least as a hobby,
His motor runs fast,
Commuting or running,
Feet barely touching the ground,
Hardly even working
There’s grace in his stride
Ease in his sweat
A lack of awareness of friction and gravity.
He’s like the wind.

Still one other, full of steam,
A seller of meat so fresh
It’s nearly alive,
Unassuming, but grizzled from sports
And a bout with biology’s wayward cellular mayhem,
This guy just goes,
No complaining, except about winter,
But all the time full of the attitude
The keeps him pushing along the rails
As his steam trails off in the wind.

There are others,
Cardiac crazies who dare to push their limits,
And I find them to be so interesting,
My kind of people,
Riders of the wind,
Pounders of the pavement,
Folks I am struggling to keep pace with
For I have not quite taken up their flight…soon, though.

Knowing when it’s good,
The feeling of accomplishment,
Storied moments elusive and fleeting
When age couples with disinterest,
Knowing when it’s good,
A welcome relief.

Charging up a hill after weeks of patience,
Reckless, bolstered with determination
Unbound by the constraints
Of doubt, worry, responsibility
Just letting it fly,
The motor running hot,
Stupidity carrying the day.

The order of things doesn’t matter,
Whether avoiding Satanic graffiti,
Stories of broken hearts, or just hoping
To keep up with the fleetest of the group
It did not matter,
It was good,
It was the beginning of something new.