urban poetry slam

youtube

We Are the generation who never learned how to speak.
We Are the offspring of the decade
20 years hence.
Post 60s love, 70s drugs, 80s hair.
We don’t know where we fit. Not yet.
We were the last to grow up on Sesame Street before it was unsuitable for children.
We are. Statistics.
Lost in a world that doesn’t recognize us. We let our different colored ipods define us.
We are. Plugged in. To every one else.
Caffeine-addicted alcoholic cyber-socialites.
We are. 3-am internet junkies.
Learned our 1s and 0s before our yes’s and no’s
We are. Complacent uncaring electorates.
We think joining a Facebook group is an act of protest 
We are. Godless. And Godful. Indifferent and morally pretentious
We are. Affixed to our LCD screens.
The Network manifest, Viral Video machine.
We are. The self-destructive invincible
messiah suicides.
We are. The philosophic insomniacs
Unread blogs of misplaced ideals, deified.
We are. A cavalcade of unwavering conformity
The will of the collective unconscious.
We are. Calling. Crying out.
With a recurring twitter update:
We exist!
We are. Guilt-imposed green-preaching druids.
Begging you to suckle the nipples of mother earth.
We are. Desensitized pharmaceutical mistakes.
With a drug and a plan for every ailment, every heartbreak.
We are. Self-induced comas when it comes to the world we see.
That war’s for someone else to fix. Not me.
It’s okay cause that earthquake didn’t happen here.
That genocide’s elsewhere. There’s nothing to fear.
They say the world’s more connected than it’s ever been.
If that’s so, then I say we got a long way to go.
Because the mature of this world will not live forever.
And it’ll belong to us. For worse or for better.
Us, with our consumer electronic virtual internet existence
Will be left to keep the planet’s subsistence.
And the lord once said, the earth will belong to the meek:
Us, a generation, who never learned how to speak.

youtube

The day your father admits to being a burning ocean, you will think back to the moment your mother told you about boiling the sea, about how it separates the salt from the water, and you will say, “No, Dad. I was wrong. You are salt. You are absent. You are two rows of teeth drenched in seventeen years of lies, and I will always be your biggest alibi.”