Abstraction

This is the Credo:
This is the flame.
This is the flinging
Off shackles of shame.

I am the fury,
Of artists unleashed,
Those heirs of conscious,
Society bequeathed.

The mingle of poets,
And the sunshine of day,
Will pave over concrete,
Over harbor, over bay,

The consort of music
Will ring in the hall,
The unspoken ethos
Of tyrant’s appall,

The fluid of painters,
Shall outlast our pain,
A swirl of colors
To interpret the stain,

An embrace of horror
Shall accompany the lie:
“No purpose exists here
But to toil long and die!”

To live for the moment
Is the fury of the storm,
You have now the Credo-
And see the movement form!

Existir

If one stops to consider the mall shopper much,
The preteens that are far too young to touch,
The ethnic boy shoveled into his dull ways,
The old man now wishing he was in better days,
The blond college chick that would know all the deals,
The ruffian so easily tempted to steal,
It is a true snapshot of the state of my peers:
The pathetic existence that America endears.

Their lack of concern is what founds all my fears.