talkin’ born to run springsteen blues

The Autobiography – coming soon!

talkin’ born to run springsteen blues … …

i have lost myself,

so often,

tripping over the tangled barbs,

here and there and everywhere i have been,

splintering me more,

each time we hauled ass,

and where once i tried to sew myself whole,

now i know,

sure,

all the random trivia,

a bit of this

but not much of much at all,

that’s the truth,

and i’ll stick to it,

go ahead,

haul me up against the wall,

but now, you see,

that now i see a little more,

cutting deep to the core,

i’ve been putting on a show,

playing the part,

cowardly,

callow,

hollow,

empty,

blind-mans bowl,

and chillingly,

effortlessly,

almost now,

clanging on,

the same old song,

the tired old dance,

but then again having strutted once,

puffy,

conceited ego,

once,

and since i have been humbled,

many times since,

this old shell has had some touch-up, and some paint,

but still,

typecast,

twisted,

playing the sad old role,

vagabond castaway,

misfit whatever,

neither here nor there,

and not that i don’t,

(pretend, at leas) to care,

i am tired of the perennial fare,

this endless fair,

playing the skin i shed yesterday,

slipping into my new skin today,

vaulting myself high,

perched up,

on the mantle,

tucked away,

between suburban pomposity,

and expected holier-than-thouness,

but now after all these years,

and after all these miles and after all these tears,

i think i am able to get through the times,

when my burden of sins,

keeps kicking me in the shins,

because one thing i know is what you said,

what you said, man, was true,

i remember it was during one of your pre-song talk-in/intro/philosophical detours on that never-ending highway,

i remember it time and time,

i’ll remember it always,

again and again,

each time i’m kicked in the shins,

remember, you said,

“… remember, in the end, no one wins unless everyone wins.”

The Big Man and The Boss

talkin’ 21st century blues

The Southern African Philosophy of uBuntu

talkin’ 21st century blues …

( inspired by Woody Guthrie, Hugh Ramapolo Masekela, The Amandla ‘ANC Freedom’ Choir, Huddie ‘Leadbelly’ Ledbetter, Pete Seeger, uMama Miriam Makeba, Vusi Mahlasela, Youssou N’Dour, Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, Christy Moore, and far too many more to mention )

walkin’ down these jo’burg streets, where glimmering chariots and hunger meets,

talkin’ about these jo’burg boulevards, where few sip whisky while the many are pierced by jagged shards,

yes, just walkin’ down these suburban roads, where high fences shield the 1%,

while the generous ones roll down their windows to fling out a 20 or so cent,

they said that ‘capitalism with a conscience’ would lead to more equality,

now we know that those words were empty and meaninglessly shitty,

there is no ‘capitalism with a conscience’ to be found,

the system itself is designed to keep the have-nots manacled and bound.

doesn’t all this sound like familiar talk, wherever in the world you live and walk,

doesn’t this happen in your city too, no matter what the stock exchange wants us to believe is true,

as you go walkin’ in your countries and cities the world around, doesn’t all this talk of the economy seem like hollow mishmash sound,

doesn’t the shimmering of gold and diamonds, of fillet mignon and blue label neat, sicken you as you emerge from your cocoons onto the raw festering street,

yes, it’s the same the whole wide world over, the grip of need that binds like a twisted  choker, while millions are wagered in casinos around the whole world on games of poker,

so yes we’re talkin’ 21st century blues, where crocodile skin footwear meet torn shoes.

johannesburg,

detroit,

lagos,

gaza,

delhi,

london,

freetown,

beijing,

soweto,

harlem,

jerusalem

the favelas,

the “squatter camps”,

the “inner cities”,

all these festering sores on all of our consciences, are just blabbered on about in countless conferences,

where the rich and powerful and the greedy, give not a hoot about the starving needy,

where men in suits sip wine and on fresh salmon dine, as the conveniently invisible ones magically appear for a quick shoeshine.

i’m talkin’ these blues not because i’m wise, or humane, or have something so different to say, no i talk these words because i know there is a better way,

a better path where hope lights the lamp of equality, where protest and songs and the fight continues for true liberty.

i’m walkin’ and talkin’ these 21st century blues, knowing injustice is unsustainable, where the 1% will and must pay their pitliless dues,

it is our common internationalism to fight and pull out the dagger of inequality, so all may share the bounties of this earth, with no need for flinging money at the odd charity,

it is a hope we must all carry deep inside us all, and yes they will call us impotent and naive, but these are the common principles and values in which we have no choice but to believe,

as we go walkin’ and talkin’ these 21st century blues, fighting the good and the right and the just fight, even as they call us naive, against the stilettos of greed that into humanity do cleave,

so that the dignity, the respect, the gender-rights, the stab of hunger, the being homeless in the sleet and the rain, is not taken for granted as the normality of this life, where bombs and hunger are no longer taken for granted as “theirs” and not “our” strife,

but where uBuntu* is practised from the cradle to the grave,

for that is the only way we can our beautiful planet, our sisters and brothers, our mothers and daughters and the women so very brave,

fight on, resisting the grotesque truths of our world and our realities from callous greed shake off these suffocating chains, the hideous materialism that we crave,

that are designed to perpetuate the tyranny of the master and of the slave …

* – uBuntu is a Southern African isiXhosa/isiZulu concept that espouses the “belief in a universal bond of sharing that connects all humanity”

Poster from the Nelson Mandela Foundation

talkin’ heartbreak blues

talkin’ heartbreak blues …

jingling and a-jangling between insipid day and fungal night, rumbling from those spirituals of yore, in a time way yonder back before, you pirouetted into my days and my nights, when pain was felt, though never this deep, this raw, that rotten gnaw deep in my core, compelling me to scribble this scribble, as i hyperventilate and as my broken mouth begins to dribble, these sentences, these words, these empty noises, barren drums, calling out, since you left, rendering me mutely bereft, just words, barren drums calling out to you, wherever you are and whoever you are today, now …

Artwork from Google