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1. |
Manifesto Destiny
04:01
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To arms, to arms!
The time has come for Manifesto Destiny,
“The Uprising”,
evolution,
or acceptance of slavery.
This is where the Big Crunch begins.
We stroll into the new age,
shorn by the cold scissors of industry,
phlegmatic and nude,
no names left in our phone books,
soap boxes converted to gallows,
in perpetual violation of sinister court fees,
feasting on cannibal suburbia,
fearing contagious fire in the mail,
McDonalds logos on every child’s lunchbox,
Everything – everyone – a terrorist!
While media orangutans fingerbang America’s consciousness,
the military rapes astronomy
and petroleum rainbows slick the rivers of the world.
The savagery of civilization dooms us all!
The bureaucratic wall halts the rolling stone!
The Dow Jones beast rears 666 heads!
No more!
Hear me now, my friends!
It’s time to confront those trapezoid-backed, Blake-prophesied, hollow-cheeked, ulcerous, toad-fingered, Bible beatboxing self-denial artists who sired the Grand Mother Night,
those who pound podiums with their diseased genitals in hand, molesting the public with their promises of justice,
those who poison the minds of the brave with their walkabout zombie philosophies,
those who coordinate the explosions and droughts of money,
those who suckle the teats of the cold, black amniotic essence of modern machinery,
those who allow rotation but never revolution,
the Molochs of their bronze plated-consciousness,
their unwavering mechanical senses,
their soulless television eyes,
the Guardians of the Darkness.
There’s only one thing left to do…
Give ‘em the cold steel remedy.
Let’s paint the glass ceiling black for their funeral.
Remember, tear gas doesn’t spread so well in the rain.
Just try to wriggle off the fishhook, o slimy thou!
You’ll be sorry when the Whisper Men come to get you!
The harsh light of truth will shine down
like a sunbeam through a magnifying glass
and burn you to a cinder.
“Who will be left to change the channel?” they will cry out.
“Who left to supply the endless demand?”
And we will answer,
“None and nobody, that’s who!”
Please hear our cry, spirit of John Brown!
Please hear our cry, spirits of Nat Turner and Crazy Horse!
Please hear our cry, spirits of Daniel Shays and Huey Newton and the Weather Underground!
In thy hallowed names, we ask ourselves the ultimate question by which our deeds will be judged:
“Are we the saviors of the universe… or just the final ape evolution?”
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2. |
The Ghost Universe
01:25
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3. |
Why The Humanist Weeps
01:24
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4. |
Haiku Suburbia
03:04
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Dog bark rhapsody
and lawn maintenance gear
ring in the suburb morn
Amid Shangri-La,
the gross neglect of sparrows
dooms the morning air
Eyes never meeting,
neighbors murmur good morning
then move along mute
Housewives jog to Starbucks
flaunting pink spandex leggings
and designer sneakers
Baby on Board sticker
like a magic talisman
wards off all evil
Carefully arranged,
the living room furniture
circles the TV
Sunday barbeque
Rolling Stones’ “Gimmie Shelter”
Cold beer in coolers
The Nielsen boxes
of America reside
within these four walls
xxxxx BREAK FOR GUIT. SOLO xxxx
Birthplace of garage bands
Apathy Incubator
The Block Grant Hustler
If your fucking dog
Pisses on my lawn again
I’ll call the police
Sally’s all grown up
Graduated from Ritalin
to Adderal
Thousand dollar stereos
play hip hop music about
life in the projects
Old man drools over
high school car wash faux virgins
all for charity
My hometown has two
humane societies but
no homeless shelter
What miracles left
in a world where any star
might be an airliner?
If there were no street signs
or numbers on mailboxes,
could you find your way home?
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5. |
Verbal Dump
01:06
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6. |
The Retail Warrior
03:09
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Alarm clock rings and induces twitching.
The devil sentences me to eight hours of life.
Another day in Purgatory,
earning nada on the nada
and praying for eventual escape from the dungeon.
Ten years of corporate propaganda training films
have quashed the golden childhood assumption
that I’m a unique soul
destined for something… anything… grand.
I dream in bar codes, now.
Walking through the supermarket door,
the heartbreaking symphony sings out before me:
“Price check for kidney beans!”
“Change on register 5!”
“Clean up vomit, aisle 8!”
Cameras in the ceiling
place me under nonstop surveillance,
like Old Testament gods
They watch.
I take my place behind the register,
tray balanced,
mind unbalanced,
bleary with the opium of repetition,
humanity forever stripped bare before the spectre of profit margins.
The overhead light above my sad station flicks on.
The unforgiving goons of suburban America
heave their sad boxes onto the conveyer belt.
Suddenly, I am unable to cope.
“Aisle 8 will steal my soul!”, I lament to my supervisor.
“Please don’t let me die to the beeping of an infrared bar code scanner!”
“I can’t face them… Not today… Not today…”
Manager does not take this well.
Banished to the break room for perversion of thought,
I record this chronicle upon cash register receipt paper and scraps of paper lunch bags,
as a prisoner writes on secreted toilet paper scrolls.
Am I doomed to this broken, eggshell existence,
forever checking groceries
in the vast Supermarkets of Hell?
I count the hours until my rebirth.
No spirituality here,
no vision quest,
only tired feet.
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7. |
Dose Ode
02:55
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8. |
Hollow Men (Redux)
01:29
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Eric Kiefer - Wordsmith and Troubadour Rutherford, New Jersey
Eric Kiefer is an award-winning writer, modern-day troubadour and 15-year factotum. Learn more about the artist and download awesome stuff at www.TheKiefer.com
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