Cabes

Whats found in HIST/AIS Notebook...

2008-05-10T12:44:00.000-07:00

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Dirty blue genes
Dirty stained yellow shirt
Old makeshift fir hat
Spray painted shoes.

This is what I see the world seeing. They don't see love in my eyes.

They don't see the past that has been so destructive.

They do not see the philosophical, mental, and emotional battles that wear on my endurance.

They do not see the passion that fills me. The pain that used to define me.
_________

She lies empty.
Nothing to give.
Everything taken.
She is twelve.
If there are memories
feeling is absent.
To survive is intrinsic,
not amiable.

I write these words for her epitaph, even while taking part in her murder.
_________

DO YOU NOT SEE!!! THE WORLD WE LOVE TO ENVISION IS MURDEROUS.

DO YOU NOT SEE THAT OUR SOCIETY I DEEPLY BUILT ON SHIT?

DO YOU NOT SEE THAT EVERYTHING WE USE, NECESSARY OR NOT, IS FOSTERED BY THE EXPLOITATION OF OTHERS?
_________

I cannot write for freedom while enslaving myself to ideals of no importance.

Can a society of our grandeur break a world of slavery? Releasing souls, like the Anasazi breaking burial pots?
_________

Lord, Father, I am absurd. I am not of consequence. I am nothing, my enemies overshadow me. Father I cry out with deep necessity and fearful certainty. I need you Lord. I must be yours. I am yours. I am great. I am a writer of truth. I am a poet of grave emotion. I am understood only and always with your grace and your peace.

revolutions we hope....

2008-05-09T23:00:00.000-07:00

A mecca declares to the world of its own righteousness. It declares to the world the truths only believed by those among the tall and proud. Darkness shrouds the world, how can a mecca distribute to the world a cloud? Can it hope to be the only source of light? Does it not strike the reader as odd? Why would a place, a place producing darkness, be a place of light? I cannot imagine such a place. Light cannot produce the darkness intended. Just as Life cannot produce death, it can only be interrupted by death. Just as generosity could not produce poverty, greed cannot produce generosity. There is only a hope that an intercessor can be introduced to produce life.

The silence as he left the podium was expected, he had after all defied all the previous speakers, he declared truth to be different than any had hoped. He told of great things that few had wondered at. Some were upset, noticeable by white knuckles on their padded armrests. The red faces contrasted well with the green curtains and inlaid gold seats. Those not upset carried a feeling of joy and freedom from the mans word, these were few, and dared not upset those next to them, the few were among the weakest in power. It became apparent that if this teaching was accepted they, the powerful, would lose the most. Anger soon overtook most. A moment of frustration gave birth to resigned action. Those with power knew how to use it.

Don�??t you realize? All this is important only to those who deem it necessary to keep a firm grip on society. This is apparent in all forms, a man with the strength of knowledge, and the lack of a moral equality with his neighbor, will never give up the position of power that knowledge imparts. Do we not have an obligation now to provide to those powerless and equality? Do we not have a responsibility, if we claim morality, to impart to those weaker the strength of equality? There are so many now, who have more than is reasonable, who still demand a right of distinction, a right of power? Is it not an ugly deception? I demand that we all demand to recognize the origin of distinction, of power.

The street was full of those who cheered. It was also full of those who knew that a small price would be his life for their own power. There wasn�??t a price on his head, the power of his enemy�??s will does not extend that far, there was however a real acceptance into power, that man who would push the right of power to the limit. The man stepped down from his small footstool. Ten days have passed since he was de-robed by the priesthood. Ten days since he was sent from his quarters as head of social justice. The new man he knew would not make his mistake, which is why he is there. The men within the priesthood have always played the games of power well, never once denying a way to strengthen their own distinction. The power of knowledge filled this mans head as he pushed through the crowd, being cheered and hated. Too many accepted him, and not enough. There was a point when the numbers of his followers were enough to draw attention and not enough to change anything. He must rally all those who are able.

One man�?�one man. Can we do differently? Am I so different than he? I hope not. I pray not. He has been apart of one of the greatest organizations since the creation of the Imperial. He was a man who had more distinction and power than the majority of the Royalty. A man who denied it all in order to truly fulfill his purpose, he was after all the head of social injustice. Isn�??t what he preaches now, not any more, not the correct conclusion of what he was originally there to do. I think we are upset because he has taken it home, he hasn�??t only brought to our attention the struggles of all those across the world who are socially beaten and bruised, but to the very people we pretend are not beaten and bruised by us, me, all the Royalty. I will stand by him, even as you threaten to take all my distinction and power. That is not your place.

A young gentleman sat as those he had previously labeled as friends and family inhaled his words. They were angry, they had thought that this meeting was going to produce a way to upset the march against them, not spread his propaganda. There were few among them that would still label themselves as the young gentleman�??s friend. They were the few who knew that the preacher spoke truth, and truth was a thing too beautiful to hide.

A Burn as Deep as Morals and Ideas

2008-05-09T22:31:00.000-07:00

A burn as deep as ideas and morals. The scar tissue festers in a remembrance of ill-conceived attempts at morality. The burn threatens my love, it threatens to destroy the very core of my future. The burn pushes toward my soul with unerring accuracy. I look out over green valleys and dark woods. The rock of mountains and cliffs destroy the potential of an easy life. To fall from one is too easy. The sun reaches me in reflections and distortions. I take in what I hope is truth and life, not sure, not knowing what lies underneath the scar tissue that disturbs too many. Life escapes through my actions, I look upon the burn and falling tears become mist around and among the pain. Why do I? What does it take, with pain and scars all too prevalent in a life all to understood? A deepening cut of truth pushes past the shallow pain with a misunderstood cleansing. Life destroys death. That is all I can say now. My life is beyond death. He has protected and secured a destiny for me, one which none will understand, not even me. My scars do not prophesy they are only historians. A forest of love surrounds me as surely as the air defies death. Why does life have such a short memory? No, death commands memory all to well. I am secured. I am sanctified. I am a saint declared by my Lord as his man, his warrior. I can live as his man. I will deny this death that is so prevalent in a world all too real.

Our World Disjointed

2008-05-09T15:23:00.000-07:00

DISCLAIMER: This piece has vulgar language that is, as I see it, necessary. I'm sorry if you must read it and do not wish to see that. I wish it was not necessary. Do not let younger audiences reed this. That means you Gabe.

I cannot see clearly while steeped in remorse. Can I see wholly with ideals working as prisms? This deep attribute seems intrinsic yet undefined. A piece of us we wholly see and never grasp. I am gibberish, I am not speaking with any tongue. Life blankly opens and pours out breath. Do you see me as I am, or as I exist?

Deeply the eyes of pools gaze.
Filled with deep desires my eyes dream.

Nights are filled with the walking dead.
I am forcing your poetry.

Empty? I am not. Blind? I am not.
Can you understand? Can we hope?
Everyday children cry for help.
Everyday children beg for change, metallic and not.

I want to cry. I want to believe that what I know is real. But I don't want to believe that what I know is real. I don't want to know that young boys and girls, who should be playing soccer, who should be singing songs, who should be doing kid things, are being forced to provide sex to old men who have no, or shadows of, morals. Old men who can only see pleasure in the destruction of children who should be playing games with their little friends. Men are taking these children and forcing them to do things we feel shame to think of. WHAT THE F@#$? How can any man let another man do this? Why do we war over land and money and politics and yet we forget our children. Where is this civilized humanity we all want to claim? How the f@#$ can we ever see this as humane? We are f@#$ing idiots playing at genius. Why? Seriously wake up! Be the integrity of human, hold onto any morals or religion you want. Stop this shit. Little kids four and up are being raped everyday. EVERY F@#$ING DAY! Take your intelligence and shove it. Take your wisdom and shove it. Take your honor and shove it. Take your pissy, cock-sucking degrees and shove it. Can you not see the reality of how infectious, destructive, and inhumane we are treating the children of our world! stop.

To Wake Up - the sun shines

2008-05-09T15:22:00.000-07:00

Shoot the sky. Make it bleed.
Drink the rain. Plant the seed.

Shoot the sea. Make it cry.
Eat the flesh. Fish will fry.

Tattoo the earth. Fill your gut.
Burn the blood. Feed the slut.

Tattoo the air. Singe our breath.
Cage the smoke. Fortell our death.

Defend our soil. Exile relief.
Open your soul. Pith of belief.

Defend our young. Wake the lie.
Burden with truth. Fail to die.

A beginning

2008-05-09T15:06:00.001-07:00

The world is turned around and under again. I look around and hope to stop thinking...stop. You see this is the world I live in, one of great proportions. One I can't comprehend, a world full of truths and lies built on our truths. A world where all lies are fostered by our hopes in things we truly dislike. I write poetry and laugh at poets. I write stories and mock writers. I am not the man I am meant to be. But I will be the man I am meant to be. This may be a dark time. It may be a dark place. But I will continue becoming a man. To everyone, I am crooked. I am not right yet. I am not safe yet. No one is, we will all be hurt at some point. Some time. I am sorry if this is depressing, but I can't help it right now. I am down.