scrounging for tools

scavenging the landscape
for bits of hardware
not enough memory
never enough

numbly searching carcasses
amidst this sprawling digital boneyard
finding augmentations in alleys
little bits to increase our speed
fractionally
more cycles

old hard drives near death
hold little precious chunks
gleaned
from the Great Cloud
of bytes

we unpack them slowly
fearful
of decompression bombs
and infection
of being found having them…

cleaned and checked
we examine the parts
what do they do?

we learn how to add them
building
our Machine

the Toolbox
for our mind
in this box
with nothing else

our silent headphones blare the great libraries we amass
while our shelves hold bread
but no peanut butter

no more click clack to drone our minds into nirvana
our keyboards are silent
our mice are frictionless
guided by lasers

of precision

with what we find
these scattered bits and discarded pieces
can we re engineer
their madness?

a silicon screwdriver
with a universal tip
records and builds
sculpted by our trackpads
formed by our mice

there is no earth
for us to grow or hunt
our little white boxes
need wheels
and screens

with this screen
can I construct
or destroy

a pyramid?

the pirates of bytes
meditating
amongst the carnage
of slaves
ever dying
with far less
than the fruit
of their labor

avoiding the pirates of life
thought meme virii reprogrammed robots of meat
filled with cable packages
of conquest and brutality
gun porn car porn engine porn gladiator porn sport porn

We survive in the shadow of their pyramid masters
Suits of greed magnetically gathering devouring

all of us beneath

oh great Maya
may our screens be filled with guns
so our children will know what rules this wreckage of culture
and their veins will fill with appropriate anger
at the sight of the “enemy”

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maya_%28illusion%29

The Clock

The Clock

I am the clock
with the face of a liar
who tells you he knows
things he cannot hope
to percieve

“the time is now…”
I tell you
speaking of broken pieces of eternity
infinite shards
in an everlasting plain of glass
that pierce the atoms
of my skull

(From “Early Poems” – 1980 – C. Taylor)

In the Mirror

In the Mirror
I saw a face
that was not mine
an image
that was you
and yet
I see a dream

In the Mirror
I loved a soul
as cold as glass
your spirit
consumed in fires
of quiet strength
unleashed

I melted like the mirror
and yet
I did not burn

(From “Early Poems” – 1980 – C. Taylor)

The Skeleton Maze

The Skeleton Maze

I stand on the corner
and watch you walk by
my hand is outstretched
and so is my pride

My heart tears inside

Sometime I feel that its too much
I try to survive
keep my head above water
see all these chains,
I cry out with anger
I watch all your faces
as you rage at these structures

My heart tears inside

The cold seeps into
my bones
always
so
alone

Trapped in the skeleton maze
of our past civilizations
our young are the slaves
of our
corporations

My heart tears inside…

– C. Taylor
[ From “A Voice of Dissent” 1988]

Listen to the song here:
http://radio3.cbc.ca/bands/A-Voice-of-Dissent—Archetripal/
and yes, it is me doing the freaky styley hendrix guitar scream…

The Skeleton Maze

The Skeleton Maze

I stand on the corner
and watch you walk by
my hand is outstretched
and so is my pride

My heart tears inside

Sometime I feel that its too much
I try to survive
keep my head above water
see all these chains,
I cry out with anger
I watch all your faces
as you rage at these structures

My heart tears inside

The cold seeps into
my bones
always
so
alone

Trapped in the skeleton maze
of our past civilizations
our young are the slaves
of our
corporations

My heart tears inside…

– C. Taylor
[ From “A Voice of Dissent” 1988]

Listen to the song here:
http://radio3.cbc.ca/bands/A-Voice-of-Dissent—Archetripal/
and yes, it is me doing the freaky styley hendrix guitar scream…

Pariah

Call me Pariah.
I have earned the name.

They would have killed me at birth
had they known then where I would go

I say what I will,
what I think,
what I see,

As I wander the outskirts and darkness of my former home

exiled

I am not welcome,
no place is set for me
no place is mine to sleep
unhindered

All this cement,
fields of grass
this grass and cement is worth more
empty and bare
than my life is worth.

I watch with my sight
through the bars,
prisoners eating

They eat well
compared to me

All the leavings and cast off foods
rot in their bins
locked
beyond my reach

I starve and grow stronger
I live
only to think

One day I will pay them
for the stones cast upon me

One day they will listen

In this wilderness of cement and steel and law
peacekeeper to clans I am not part of
I see Law that is lawless
Law that lies
Law that is different
for the rich and the poor

Seeing their cracked honor
I howl the rage that unrighteous persecution brings
bearing witness

I have earned the title Judge

As I have earned the dust
in my name

(this poem is still a WIP-
C. Taylor)

My advice for young people graduating in Canada

Young person, fresh faced and ready to take on the “thriving” Canadian job market,
listen close:

If your tongue is long and you lick ass well, you’ll be rewarded well.
If you LOVE working 12 hours a day, 6 days a week, you will thrive.
If you don’t care that you are paying over 80% of your wage just on rent, utilities, transportation, and food, you will be happy.
If being a meat-robot is a primary goal in your life, you’re set.
If you can stomach being a whore and selling your ass for money, this current economy in Canada is designed to to make you one, so just go with it if you’re of that type.

If none of that appeals to you, be smart.
Avoid going to university and getting into debt for more than you will make over the next 10 years.

You’ll be better off in Canada if you:

Join a gang and work hard for your organized crime boss

Grow pot. Its not very dangerous, and you’ll have money and pot to smoke. The cops will steal it from you if they can so hide it well. Don’t be a schmuck, do it right. Nobody likes kife weed.

Sell any other drug. It pays better than McDick’s. Try not to stoop to crack, but hey, money is money.

Steal from rich people. May sure you get their PIN if you beat the crap out of them.
Try not kill them, but remember, they want you dead if you’re not in the same class as them. So have at it.

Steal from large faceless corporations at any opportunity, even if you have to smack a lock or two to make off with da goods. Security guards are warrior pawns, sad to say, so whack em before they get that talkie squelching.

Lie to all people in authority or higher classes when they ask if you are a devout servant of their GOD. Say yes. Try not to believe the bullshit coming out of your mouth. When they bow to pray hit them over the head and take their wallet.

Destroy all hummers and porsche vehicles you see. If you want to show off your “bling” drive something old and cool and tricked out. Keying is second best to destruction.

Give money to buskers and wandering wizards. The ghost of Robin Hood will bless you.

You’ll be so much better off if you start selling drugs right out of high school.

Being a whore fucks up your head. It’s better to be a pimp or pimpette.

Try not to get too high on your own supply. It’s better to have variety so trade with your competitors. Remember to say hello to their little friends. It’s the polite thing to do.

sing Happy Fucking Birthday to me while you resolve to follow my good advice.

The Sentence

I’m writing on paper….
devouring trees.

Newspaper I read,

scavenging
scraps of information,
I throw it down,
pick up another,

Sit on my oak chair, at my ash table…

Wood,
so beautiful,
it’s bones laid bare.

Many times I have killed trees as they spoke,
they never finished their sentence,
and I’m reading this sentence.

Maybe I can write smaller,
use it again,

Maybe I can burn a log slower,

or put it out with white bleach poisoned water.

I can sit on a stump
in a vast plain of tree-bones,
no shade in sight,

only a spectre.

from “A Voice of Dissent”
-C. Taylor

Good for Nothing

Good for Nothing

-C. Taylor

Unsightly,
isn’t it ?

This ragged man,
holes in his clothes
burning your pride

with his scribbled words about
injustice

and hunger,
amidst plenty.

Why can’t he just shut up and be happy ?

Not everyone can be well off

he should serve coffee,
or gas

not hurt people
with visions

of the scars of the world.

“Don’t judge a book by it’s cover”,
he’s saying,

“my mind burns

like the sun,

and my soul touches

the blood of this earth,

rock that moves like water…”

How can we believe
his crazy rantings,

he is only a bum,
good for nothing.

———————-
From the book
“The Butcher’s Block: Poems of Poverty”
by Chris Taylor
————————-

Drunken Talkers

Drunken Talkers
-C. Taylor

Shed the skin,
the worn face
Leave it in it’s dark place

Pull apart the folds

Step into the new from old

I am tired of your mindless chatter
I am bored of your smoky laughter
Minds of charred coal
No fire in your souls

Shoot me down as I fly, would you?
My light will burn your feeble eyes
Mindless, on and on you ramble
You say nothing substantial

The layers have stripped themselves away
My true skin feels the light of day,

I leave your monkey chatter

Your screaming things that do not matter

———————-
From the book
“The Butcher’s Block: Poems of Poverty”
by Chris Taylor
————————-

The Butcher’s Block

The Butcher’s Block
– C. Taylor

“Go on then,
tell me the story,

show me the poem…”

your eyes say,
challenging,
as they speed along
looking, hurriedly,
for the “good” parts.

When you are faced
with the glaring nakedness
of malicious acts
you will doubtless turn away
as most pious souls
usually do,

equating the Truth,
the description of evil
with the evil itself.

And who am I ?

Mongrel man,
slum-house dweller,

who thinks,
who dares to think

he can write Truths ?

You have surmised,
in this quickly scanning fashion,
that this poet,
filthy and poor,

is not going to tell you

of peaceful streams,
the souls of tranquil flowers,
dreamy eternal lovers,

and sweet memories of loved ones dead.

No.

on his knees as he begs

for food,
and a place to sleep,

he will tell you,
gently

what happens

on the butcher’s block.

———————-
From the book
“The Butcher’s Block: Poems of Poverty”
by Chris Taylor
————————-

The Value of Art

The Value of Art
– C. Taylor

Art is worth nothing in our society.

Artless people scoff loudly,
to them
it is an idler’s game,

shameful and useless.

The hours I spend,
the months
the planning

just little scraps

of “useless” paper.

I stand eight hours working
on a ten inch square of a ten foot work
I have planned so carefully it will take a year to finish.

My feet scream in pain
my fingers and eyes sore from the strain
of being so careful
to get it right

or I must redo it.

It is only one of many.

Yet no one believes that this is work.

I sleep awhile
eat
a bowl of rice,
some cheese,
and work on writing

I work on many books at once,
many paintings,
many songs,
carefully planning

the structure, shape.

it must be done a certain way
to communicate the “idea”

to the observer.

That communication,
transferring the concept

from the canvas, tape, page,
is my only real payment.

I will die hungry, and poor,

of that I have no doubt.

I cannot stop my work
it is my only way
to change

the world around me.

My tiny influence

might affect only a few for the better,

yet it is all I can do, so I must.

The moody notes of my saxophone,

the unryhmed words of my strange poem,

the forms of near-madness
that call from my canvas,

they instill something in you,
evoke feelings and thoughts.

These are worth more
than nothing.

———————-
From the book
“The Butcher’s Block: Poems of Poverty”
by Chris Taylor
————————-

The Writers

The Writers
-C. Taylor

Oh, how they fear us,
The Big Men,
The Dogs.

We are the tiny flea,

too srnall for them to bite,

underneath
their collar.

Our words reach all the other tiny ones
bringing them together in thought
focusing their tiny voices until
millions strong,
the voices make

a shout

In many countries they kill us
for our words
and here,
though they do not kill
they investigate

“Find this flea
who dares to speak

the truths we would bury!”

They roar

…and the policemen nod their heads
and scurry…

And even though

we believe we are free

many are silenced,

silently.

“Ah ha! We have found one!
Take his food
and house
and he will shut up

while he scavenges about

searching for scraps”

We fleas are hard to kill, though.
We remember our hard lives,
and we speak to one another,
passing along
the Words.

Many times
we have hid the Words
amongst piles of others
changing their forms slightly,
to disguise them
so that only other fleas can find them.

Sometimes the Dogs themselves
like the piles of words

in their pretty sentences

and pay to buy them,

but their lives being easy,

and their pride hard,

they pass by the well hidden truths.

Many are killed, jailed, blackballed, disgraced
these tiny flea-philosophers,
but another always takes their post,
and the words themselves,

the Truths

refuse to die.

———————-
From the book
“The Butcher’s Block: Poems of Poverty”
by Chris Taylor
————————-

The Poets and Artists

The Poets and Artists

-C. Taylor

Poets and artists
are dying unnoticed here

Walk by them

the grass sprouts
from their dead eyes and mouths,
curls up through their fingers,
their minds numbed
by hunger and homelessness
their wondrous talents unused

They are not wanted here,
in fact

the giant buildings and machines,
our true masters,
would crush them in the womb
and will
When the troublesome genes that make them think
are found

and numbered

Masters do not want thinkers

talking and painting

of the unjust status quo.

walk by their dead bodies!

Before you are seen in your weeping.

———————-
From the book
“The Butcher’s Block: Poems of Poverty”
by Chris Taylor
————————-

A Slowly Dying Canada – (excerpt from "The Butcher’s Block")

A Slowly Dying Canada
– C. Taylor

My country, Canada, is falling ill.

it is colder, and a shadow obscures the sun,
A shadow called poverty, the cold of fear.

We fear for our lives now.

Losing our jobs to machines,
robot assembly lines, and computers
do the jobs that thousands
used to do.

It was supposed to be better,
more efficient,

but instead it concentrates
more money
to a smaller few,

while the rest lose their houses and dreams,
the “human cost of downsizing”.

My Canada is increasingly
a country of broken hopes,
poverty and futility
creating directionless hostility

We try to hurt others
as if that would heal
our own pain.

Can you blame my brothers ?
They attack immigrants and women
dog eat dog
because there aren’t enough jobs
to keep us fed.

We work to survive
hand to mouth

Contentedness is unimaginable

It was getting better for a time,
but the hunger is setting in,
and it will get worse.

They are without hope.

There are no loans for small businesses
The big, old ones are laying off
We are denied credit
or any true way to rebuild it

There are no places for us,
the loose pieces,
to fit

And the government has the the gall
to blame us for being poor

If we speak out,
cry for mercy
they set the police on us

find ways to lock us up
for our small vices.

We are the media scapegoat
mouths bound,
minds whirling

Is it any wonder
that the gangs of youth
are disillutioned
and turning to violence ?

They cannot hope
to own a house
or feed and clothe a child

My Canada is dying
and I cannot stop it’s death,
though I may try with my art
to give it hope,

Art is worth nothing

to speak of it’s worth is wasted breath

Our artists and craftsmen starve,
our culture dissolves,
and I can only watch,
remembering

———————-
From the book
“The Butcher’s Block: Poems of Poverty”
by Chris Taylor
————————–
Listen to it here: http://radio3.cbc.ca/bands/A-Voice-of-Dissent—Archetripal/

Pyres and Crosses…

They nailed him up…
one of many

many millions
young men

crucified
purges

There were millions.

Thousands in a day
crucified, beheaded
Burnings

Would he stand on the hill of the killing field of Infidels
With their observations, books, thoughts,
Sight

Would he look upon their bodies and smile?

For some strange reason, madness perhaps,
I think to myself he would weep.

He never was about guilt
Never wanted that for you
would grieve to see you grovelling
confessing Sin

Before the Axe you bow and cry

Tell Him about your Sorrow
He cares not for simple guilts
and Fear

Is it not Life
That you would hear Him speak about

I do not know,
I cannot say

Think of this Being at the center
Speaking
Surrounded by His acolytes
Wanderers

A message of

Acceptance
Peace
Strength
Love
Community

Blown apart we are divided
The Break

We are broken Apart
Become Wanderers again…

He does not want your Suffering
for Guilt, Shame and Fear

The cross on which he hung is NOT his friend
No Ally was he nailed to

Electroshocked minds of happiness
it’s so much better now
We have so much to do…
We dance naked in tiny boxes of white
Almost afraid of the fields flocks once roamed
Terrified of dirt,
and the smell of grass

Worshiping the guillotine on which our rebels and heroes have departed…
Screaming
“Truth…
and freedom!”

I will not bow before this Axe
It killed my friend

His Life is the True Story
Not the fairy tales of his Father

Jesus did not point to the sky
He pointed to his centre, and that of the others there
“This is what we seek
Together…”

Not the noose and its tying…
The bullet in its flying
The machete and the pistol
And the Pyre.

C. Taylor

The Gods within the Root of Us

what does
Namaste
or
ishta deva
mean?

archetypes/symbolic metaphors
worn
as Masks

The Oracle speaks
we choose
their wisdom
or our own

to pull the Aspect
from the Skein
Or to Weave our Own
In golden filaments
draped across
aroused and breathing
Skin

filled I am
Content
Close as I myself am to you
Is how close we can be
to uniting
even closer
is One for an instant
made of two entwined
and attuned

Breathing together
over Time
We become
One, two entwined
enshrined
released

breathing
Together…..
Entwined………..
over
Time……

C. Taylor

Rituals of Spring

Wondering again how much a whisper on the web
An idea crosses
The Skein
Minds interlink in Rituals of Spring
Old fears cleansed to become Skyclad
Naked is how we are in Mind
In the Glade

For many years I’ve been writing and painting.
Canada doesn’t seem to be working for me.
The cultural dissolution and suppression
Sicken me

They throw their children to the Blizzard
Become whores for rich old men
love for money
for harder drugs to forget the cold
The Blizzard takes them
The Unwanted Ones
Always so young cast away

In the spring we find them
Pig farms, ditches and fields
As the earth tries to heal
Beneath its sorrow

These foolish monkeys need to grow
And I have almost lost Hope
That they ever could have done so

Christopher Don Taylor

Scour

Rubbing harder
something
more abrasive

scraping

not necessarily wounding

often ripping away
only dead skin

revealing pink flesh
that was hidden

beneath old scars

the raw sensation
of clean

cleansed

Christopher Don Taylor