The nationality of paleontologists

Those 2 thousand year old columns on the hill
sticking out of the sand
The sand an aged browny yellow
down to the sparkling champagne
of the sea

A tour operator who was born in the sand
stately date palms the feet of the desert
History knocks you out in the color and trim of the city
This lost old piece of the world
Where ignorance blinds the habitants from their own past

These fine ruins of palaces
spied on from thousands of miles away
Poor sheet wrapped desert walkers
Don't own or understand their own legacy

Heads and hearts bound by dogma
deceiving them like a soft tarp protecting them
from that sickly dawn frost at years end

Looking down from the visor

Black shiny armor
Bullet proof shields
convinced brains
in hot skulls
under riot helmets

Truncheons move to the march
Uniforms dull them into
A violent sleep awake
A soul willing to destroy

Each man is handed a gun
each gun loaded
each trigger pulled until
blood on the road

Protestors trampled
screams pushed out of them
like blood out of them
like taxes out of them

Just bodies waiting for the hired gun
The stubborn despot
infecting helmet fulls of youth
infecting uniform wearers

Just looking down on those banner holders
Those eyes so uncaring
soup carcass of authority
repressing the people ruthlessly

Looking out of that protective visor
banging the truncheon on his shield

Scratch across the nightmare

Squash the dragon
Call up the brave souls that wait
somewhere in the ether
to show us support

Something swirls out of the darkness
forming and flying into existence
dragon like
somewhere closer to our reality

Some false terror has swindled the air
darkness' closest ally
permission to prowl
yet now pick the parasites from our dreams

hug our sheets
and squash the dragon

Sons of adventure

Sons of the sun
Father searching the empty market
Young eyes still seeing abundance
The smooth panels of your boxlike houses
above the manicured lawns each blade of grass glistening
new born babies

Screen connected, something special to eat
In your house
 From the heart of a father
a generation forms
No half empty supermarket can stop them
They own the world

Not addicted to screens or dull convention
Questioning and self conditioning
Learning the true value and forgetting complaint
Dependence is not worn by them
only magnificent expansions, motives of glory

Sons of this whole new attempt
so automatic
From where strong arms and minds of struggle crossed the swamps
And landed shocked and exhausted like wet rats after a flood
optimistic within the city limits
Arriving with the new morning with a tool to make it shine brighter

Forward with full force
take full credit

Family, that colored machine

Into the colored machine
Into the gestures and voices
Of a moving family

Over highways
muddy lake margins
Up to fondness front door

What a caravan it is
So many colors
A brother smiling

Certainty
Hard concrete
City motorways full of junctions

A family is the puzzle put together
even if the pieces don't seem to fit
the way you'd like

Stardust and the chameleon child

The softness of air
colored by fame but you didn't care
You were there, always someone else
Changing for us, changing like night and day

Expressing our many phases on stage
You were our delicate secrets, half a strum of our rage
Throwing vulnerability with the strength of a titan
Throwing fingertips over chords like your hands were insane
The voice box ached and roared
Your music poured into our brains

Standing true a blond eighties apocalypse on stage
Burning like rocket fuel
Touching Africa with a shrewd but loving stroke
Touching the solar system, inviting it for a toke
Pumping poison ivy into mediocre and predictable lost yobs

Giving nonsense to the chefs whose ingredients never change
How did you get so high
coming down and rough hung over
still rearrange, stay as much fighter as lover
How did you learn to steer

Out of the blue asteroids danger
Still rhythming sly
Melodying on the side
Rocking the listeners emotion

With two different colored eyes

Close to vision

 Sharing your words,
 the page a pitcher,
 the rolling waves hit us in silence,
 together as a lost herd.

 Together feeling the vibration
 of our confusion forming into a heavy sense,
 falling into the tide and being carried out with it,
 into his eye,

 counting the waves
 as we are washed in the wisdom
 of many a scribe's infinite verse
Close to vision