i’ve seen the spirits of

dreamers around me shattered,
unemployed and broken,

i’ve heard their screaming
as they’re being
dashed apart by
the million broken
promises of youth,
(seeming comforting, but they’re)
teaming at the seams
with seeds of doubt
and soon enough the hidden
phantoms start appearing throughout.

i’ve seen the tragic hipsters
the wide eyed somnambulists:

who glow orange against their lit
bummed cigarettes at night, their
teeth chattering and grinding,
naked bathed in solemn truth and
bright clandestine light,
carving their paths carefully
out of the blurry firmament
with unwavering might:
sparkling horizon meets starry dark,
as they’re fighting plights in silence
stark raving mad, lost, hark!
howling for proof in the rain,
lamenting expired creative spark,
rioting, reeking of buried disdain

thriving only in suffering,
doused in this lifetini’s
sour vodka vermouth,
with no olive to chew
as their hands
wring themselves raw, into claws,
drunk on their own disasters again,
higher on trouble than any
drug could drag them,
doubled under laws,
just trying to keep sane.

who shudder under headphones
at how difficult it has become
to reach adulthood, insane!
this becomes their constant bane, they

who hide in apartments they can barely afford,
2000 dollar a month shoeboxes,
struggling, everything inside
now a part of a small hoard,
holding on for dear life
to the little they have,
not knowing if there will
be more found, or just the echo
of the hard slam shut of the
heaviest most unwavering, unmerciful doors, crushing their calves

who loiter around corporate
coffee houses,
clutching close the ideas
that so badly need to be revealed

who hold hostage in their hearts
magic, passion, and art so real,
the fire and spark of change ideal

who drink stolen fountain soda under
the guise of free tap water

who waste away like discarded rubbish
on freeways, squatters
waiting to be rescued from the sting of survival,

who vandalize buildings for vocation,
tagging and stickering as a
means toward recognition,
the genius unnoticed never ending condition

who harness themselves to the possibility that
success comes to those who are deserved of it,
painting in ill lit tenements,
drafting in the scores
of forgotten notebooks,
creating hidden treasures,

who march for the 99%, this generation laments
as our nation’s government overlooks
crooks pretending they take correct measures
with focused intent

who exercise their right to
gather in protest,
klaxon clamor, they think
they know best
who get maced by police, kneecaps hammered
knocked down and
locked away for their beliefs

who find no peace in our system as it stands
(no child left behind a glaring lie,
they don’t understand;
for who came back for them?
who came back for the 30 year college loans,
for the dismantled credit scores, for the repossessed,
for the jobless, homeless, and under arrest?)

who fought for their country in a war polluted with corruption, conspiracy, and unrest

who came back from Iraq injured and cracked, like
the vets back from Nam, denied respect

who hide behind the veils of maturity
playing house in a world unaffordable
who should star in the
center light of our sphere
held in the palms of hands
as movers, life improvers,
but instead are marked ill doers,
do nothings,

who find things flawed as they are,
(not to be revered!)
find themselves unmarketable,
find themselves
find the odds are impossible!

who read poetry like wild winds
and write
phrases on dirty napkins
in mental hospitals,
children of Carl Solomon

who pray to ancient gods in
last resort to regain
lost chances, glances, and romances

who slay solid institutions
with their words
musical, beautiful,
whirling in dervish advances

who wait on lines for open mics,
eager to spread
the angst of their minds,
flowering, budding, the
redness of eyes never closed,
the pains of numb
acknowledgement that
the lucky sperm club reigns
supreme with their shortcuts
and privilege

who find themselves lost,
from the system
they’re tossed
to the wolves
waiting to shred any scrap
of dignity embossed in their souls,
who set goals only to discover
goals are for those
who can afford to achieve them

who wait in ER’s for toothaches denied Medicaid

who have wounds they’re unable to
cover with Band-Aids

who need help, but are told to
stick it out and
just find their own way

who can’t recall the folds
of the womb as they
forge wavering paths to their
tomb, stuck
in the solid muck
of life stuff, fuck!

for whom years pass in
spans of what seems days
minutes into blinks blinking away
15,360 times in two rounds of
twelve hour bits
ad infinitum, now all grown up with
the same array of caged dreams,
looming extreme, lost,
looking around, thinking
what can I do about this? anything?

who are etched in the ranks of structural class,
tax breaks only for those who don’t feel the sting
of withholdings,
who are put out on their ass,

who are tired and trodden and
can’t earn a living
dealing with disease, addiction, poverty, and
distant impossible opportunity,

who cry like banshees for some relief,
dying of overdoses, needles hanging
from their arms in the streets

who dance in the wash
of dim road posts,
counting change at counters
for a pack of smokes
and processed garbage to ingest
through their tourniquets

who know in their bones
it can be better than this

who know in their bones
it must be made better than this

who pick at the scabs left behind by bitter mistakes

who stick to the plans specified by magistrates

who find in doing so their psyches break

who drive the straight highways of Long Island
who walk across bridges and swim under tunnels,

who travel to escape city turmoils.

i am with you in Rockland, all of you,
descendants of Carl Solomon
who blaze through the streets,
who parade the corridors of this
trodden earth, i am with you in Rockland

Rockland, another wasteland to turn to
(i am with you in Rockland).
Rockland, the county of my birth,
(i am with you in Rockland).
Rockland, the symbol of my mirth
(i am with you in Rockland).
Rockland, where the roads bend and turn
(i am with you in Rockland).
Rockland, where the poets go to burn
(i am with you in Rockland).
Rockland, where the cops have nil to do
(i am with you in Rockland).
Rockland, a small suburban pass through
(i am with you in Rockland).
Rockland, a county carved from mountains
(i am with you in Rockland).
Rockland, where most businesses have fountains
(i am with you in Rockland).
Rockland, a sheltered place for most
(i am with you in Rockland).
Rockland, housing Ginsberg’s ghost
(i am with you in Rockland).
Rockland, where the shrieks resound
(i am with you in Rockland).
Rockland, building monster malls on swampy ground
(i am with you in Rockland).
Rockland, a symbol of our fight
(i am with you in Rockland).

i am with you in Rockland,
where all is dead at night
save for the remnants of those screams,
the cold petrified residue of dreams.

(c) Sandy Lynn Riefberg / SLR / Waifette 2013 All Rights Reserved