i’m not sure i like your God!
or at the very least,
not His actions!
salvation, and capitalism,
are two seperate things.
compassion does not kill,
does not starve,
does not enslave,
does not abuse!
you speak of Satan,
and his cruel horrors.
perhaps he is your god!
that would explain the
blood on your hands!
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…act the truth,stand up, and shout!make your life a real life!do something that really lasts.small things, big things,in all things be true…to your heart, to your mind….to what you know…you’re supposed to do!never settle, and never mettlein things that have no value.validate your time by living,your living by giving,do what you’re given to do!speak the…
‘hippies, nuts, and the like…’
to blue collar Joeto respected businessman…from renegade,to family man,church, and community.and it tookgetting ran overby the corporate train,to bring me back to myself!primordial, raw, honest,knocked down, get up,hand in hand…heretic, sacred dance,moment to moment…and walking the hallowed streetsof America… let me tell you,it dont smell like freedom!call me hippie, far left, socialist,whatever the hell you…
i am only the bowl!
i am not the fire.i am not the rain,nor the sun that gave.i am not the fertile earth.i am not the human handsthat gathered, that prepared…i am not even the hand that offers.i am not the table, not the chair,i am not the spoon.when day is done,and my place is known…i am only the bowl!
let me see if i understand this…
at the cost of thousands of lives…you invade Iraq, and their fake WMD’s.you go to battle in Afghanistan,using terrorisn for an excuse…but you cant and wontlift a damn finger to helpthe people of Tibet…a nonviolent people,being abused, ravaged, raped,and killed by The Chinese government…who’s sleeping with who?and who do you think you’re fooling?
the old man stirs the fire,
an unknown breeze ruffles the curtains,as fire enters through the window.love is a storm, and the aftermath.stillness, and life in disarray.so seldom we touch the lightning,and seldom we kiss the thunder.and only if we’re very lucky,can we reach and touch a falling star…feel the intimate warmth of its passing,knowing that nothing will ever be the…
silence is not…
but sound stripped naked and pure!the thunderous crash of the acorn,to the ground that startles the squirrel,and freezes him with fear!the squeak of the old spicket,wailing for the water to rise,from the dead bones of time.the moan of dead bones,returning back to dust,as if sexual release.and the prayers of the trees,who see our foolishness,and weep!