I have news from the front the unseen battle rages on.
You look at your neighbor with a leery eye
and nothing really changes as time goes by
out on the streets you just accept things as they are.
Trust is a hard word to speak when you’re never spoken to
so watch your back you never know what’s coming up behind you.
Eastside, Westside, why don’t you get on the right side?
Eastside, Westside, get on the right side.
Well, I don’t want to mislead you in trying to cross that bridge
but anything is possible if you truly want it to be.
It’s a cold war out there
but it’s no longer between the Soviets and the West
it’s more like night and day there’s no softer gray
it’s either or it gets in the way.
Maybe I’m just too hopeful I see things up in the sky.
A zebra unicorn with silver wings
flies high above the city and sweetly sings
but no one can hear it no one can really see it.
Eastside, Westside, why don’t you get on the right side? Eastside, Westside, get on the right side
and take the center lane the middle of the road
compromise look into your eyes and become energized.
Middle of the road it’s going to take you far
middle of the road it’s going to take you far.
And so I say to you it’s a freeway out of here it’s a freeway out of here.
Eastside, Westside, why don’t you get on the right side?
Eastside, Westside, get on the right side
Eastside, Westside, let’s get on the right side
Eastside, Westside it’s time to get on the right side.
Joe Balaz
BLISS OF THE SONGSTAR
bliss on all fours in bliss the obsolete moonlight, the vagrant bliss of remedies, a bliss of obscene proportions the calipers of great bliss, bliss aromas in gargantuan kiln hearts giant overlapping bliss mantra bliss united bliss supreme bliss aria bliss open bliss unconquerable the day of the fire urns lining the road of yer commotion, bliss on the way to trail spirals over everything the bliss of thee
kuhar
FUCK THE MUSE
she’s just a fat-ass whore anyway a fickle tantric partner that just as soon go garage sale shopping as write poetry all she’s ever done is measure his poet’s worth in dime store plastic Buddha’s the only time she’d every really let him write was if he’d finger her lips and made her come then she’d return the favor but she’d be gone as quick as that Fuck she is just dangerously unreliable.
at 3:40 am. draped in a fevered stupor he might want more but wouldn’t get it she is toga trailer trash thru and thru she’d return now only by crawling back into his dreams through the side door that opened onto Savannah Ave. the one that ran down the near side of East Cleveland down to the railroad tracks eyes glazed & mind reeling mark of Shiva on his forehead maybe it isn’t the flu after all likely just a scorpion bite a prick delivered on the backs of the suburban patrol Cleveland’s wide-eyed wonders clueless riders on the ghost train to nowhere they’d run the Blues out of town once before no wonder they’re under suspicion the gestures of holy men are always under suspicion in East Cleveland especially seen cast in the street light glow of after hours libation I don’t think now it is the flu just some leftover 20th century karma wrapped up in an old copy of the Cleveland Press.