Unsettled

Squirrels scurry from yard to yard
Reminiscing of things once theirs,
An eagle retreats from roof to roof.
Displaced amidst sub-urban air.

Unannounced as a guest,
They survey the land
On a perch they may assemble,
In the garden they may roam,

A fence in every yard,
Each with his lot,
In the constitution,
This credo was wrought

Through the ceiling or the chimney,
But not the front door
Unwelcome in the home
Subterranean parts unknown

The Quickest Path To A Man's Soul Is His Art, Or Is It His Heart?

“When I rule the world, there is no one around to obey my orders. I have no servents, no slaves, no sluts to sleep with. Pardon my vulgarity, but there is no established court in this house, no code of conduct. Yet, there is justice of a strange and twisted sort. The type of justice that often manifests itself in the form of an eyeball, or an arm. Quick and swift, yet suprisingly effective...”

“But others rule at a different time, more appropriate for most. A time when rulers can peer into the eyes of their subjects, use their various accesories as symbols of strength and such. Wearing an image, playing their part on the grandest stage. But what of the Saturnalia, when those who are slaves indulge in licentious behaviour that Bacchus would find most honorable. What happens when the theatre of life becomes a circus in the night. What are we to make of the clown who seemed so friendly in the daytime, but so diabolical in the darkness. His intentions are clear at first, his red lipstick and goofy smile, a balloon, a smile across your face, but at night?"

“What happens when the sun sets over the mountains and the sun turns to shade and shortly into darkness. The theatre of life is turned upside down into the circus of death. To strive for excess, to live life like a mess, undressed, raw, like the cave man wearing a freshly cut animals fur, the stench of blood still eminating from the slayn beast.”