image

the birthdays, they come and go

 

it blows in on the wind, late at night, alone

stories they been told since before birth

about a lost virgin with no place to lay down

for a starry night in the desert land

across many seas, even more years ago

 

the real story is there in the books, plain as day

it was not the case, it was not even this time of year

a rabbi may have been born in that time, but

born a child of fornication, like all children are

he was born a boy, but grew into a man, a rabbi

a spiritual leader who viewed the status quo

as unjust and not spiritually fomenting to be love

a love that he saw so necessary in this world

from then on into the future, he saw the need for love

over all, over anything…love was god…god was good

 

his cries for justice caused a change that was powerful

it encompassed those outside his own religious tenets

it engulfed the minds, the hearts, even the souls

of many different lands, many different languages

 

then it became an arbitration of kingdoms on earth

as it sold space in an imaginary kingdom of heaven

 

it assimilated every spiritual belief that stood in the way

of the rule of its ultimate law, the bearer of its ultimate crown

the words of the rabbi who sought justice were determined

to be only open for discussion at the feet of mortal thrones

the dates of events would fit in with superseded belief systems

celebrations took on new meaning with remnants of ritual

leftover by whimsical tribes of the conquered subjects and slaves

 

now it is the structure of commerce and patriots, bold as they are

behind sophisticated weaponry and manufactured rules of engagement

in wars they forge with the upheld throne of false kingship hidden

behind flags and banners of conflicted democracy and republic

 

onto this day, born into this world, a child came in our time

a child that wanted nothing but history to be learned well enough

so the lies that people were willing to die for

might be less lethal

than the truth they can’t seem to live with

or the love they speak of, but deny when it is upon them, so unjustly

© 2013, A. Razor. All rights reserved.

A. Razor (5 Posts)

A. Razor was born in Brooklyn, N.Y. in 1963, but brought to California at the age of 1. He was raised with a strong desire to read and write, but an even greater desire to survive, which has aided his experience and longevity so far. He began writing and publishing around 1980 in various underground zines and publications, first in the Los Angeles area, then ever expanding outward from there as he was discovered by Drew Blood Press, Ltd. in 1984. He has read his work at many readings and spoken word events over the years. He has fought hard to live and express his art for many years in many ways. Recently he became a member of the Hollywood Institute of Poetics in Los Angeles, CA in 2009. On January 13, 2012, A. Razor combined efforts with Iris Berry and founded Punk Hostage Press, which publishes books and brings literary arts to an audience that is inside institutional situations such as shelters, jails, prisons and treatment centers. His writing has always explored the world that he has sought to be a part of and to rebel against in the same paradoxical moment. He has traveled extensively, seeking and enduring everything from homelessness and imprisonment to serenity and peace. He now works with non-profit organizations in order to be a steward of services and support for those who have similar circumstances.


2 Comments

  1. Very lovely composition and flowing words, I liked it a lot. :)

  2. Anya Pham

    A lot of truth in this!

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