Desert Love

As the leaves quake

A wind whispers across the sky

The sunrise takes shape

Reds, yellows, oranges 

God's paintbrush, man's passion

Dreaming beyond the horizon 

New lands, new sunsets

Forever moving forward

The stream flows until it is dry

The savagery of the desert consumes all

But life flourishes in death

Darkness gives way to light

And all begins anew

Like me and you

Current state of affairs...

Years of fear have brought us here

Anger grew to hate

No one listens, no one talks 

Now we fear our fate

Brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles

We're all torn apart

Everything we're supposed to love

We somehow have forgot

Until we listen we will not know

What others talk about

Stop the brain stop the pain

And listen with your heart

The walls must fall that divide us all

That keep us far apart

Bridges heal, bridges grow 

Give us a new start

So stop the tears, and stop the fears

We need something new

Building love, building trust

building what is true

So take my hand we'll march together

Fight to live a new forever

Here for you, here for me

Here for all those that will be

And when we win, they will know

We fought with all our heart and soul

Fought for justice, Fought for life

Always fighting for what's right

New Website

So I have a new website... Mostly for my academic profile, but I also have a blog over there as well and will likely use it more than this one. Check it out here: www.ben-schrader.com

Whiskey Blanket

I'd like to drown in the shadows
But the whiskey keeps me afloat
I wish you weren't in every god damned thought
It's its own darkness
It's my own curse
And every day it just gets worse
So I drink to stay alive
Drink to forget
At the end of the day, the drinks all I get

Cause I yearn to live, but long to die
With every drink, I try and try
To drown you out, but still I sink
Cause about me, you no longer think
So I return to the one thing that I know
My whiskey blanket that keeps me warm

The bottom of a bottle is where I'll be
But please don't feel sorry for me
Cause I paved my road
I made my bed
Someday soon I hope to make my amends

And I yearn to live, but long to die
With every drink, I try and try
To drown you out, but still I sink
About me, you no longer think
So I return to the one thing that I know
My whiskey blanket that keeps me warm

Now I awake, cold and alone
My head hurts and you're still gone
So I drag myself back to the pub
Knowing now, that I fucked up
And one more drink, is not enough

Now I yearn to live, but long to die
With every drink, I try and try
To drown you out, but still I sink
Cause about me, you no longer think
So I return to the one thing that I know
My whiskey blanket that keeps me warm

The Bullet and the Gun

The bullet and the gun, copper and steel, the squeeze of the trigger, the rush of adrenaline.

We're taught the bullet and the gun is an extension of us, reach out and touch someone they say.

In Iraq, the bullet and the gun was a way of life, here it most surely means my death. 

Over there the bullet and the gun plays politics with innocent lives, while at home the innocence lost is realized.

In war it is a shame when the bullet and the gun go unused, in peace it is a tragedy when it is.

The bullet and the gun, once so easy to use, now seems like an only option. 

I once felt safe with the bullet and the gun, now their coldness dangerously caress my lips. 

I thought the bullet and the gun was to protect them, but now I think it is to end to the misery I have caused them. 

22 brothers and sisters find refuge in the bullet and the gun everyday, I fight everyday to not be one of them.

And yet the bullet and the gun calls like a siren in the night, tempting to be used while screaming "why" to the flashing of red and blue lights.

The bullet and th... 

Excerpt from Tiqqun’s: This is not a Program

“Contrary to what THEY have told us, the warrior is not a figure of plentitude, and certainly not of virile plentitude. The warrior is a figure of amputation. The warrior is a being who feels he exists only through combat, through confrontation with the Other, a being who is unable to obtain for himself the feeling of existing… The warrior is in fact driven by a desire, and perhaps one sole desire: the desire to disappear. The warrior no longer want to be, but wants his disappearance to have a certain style. He wants to humanize his vocation for death. That is why he never really manages to mix with the rest of humankind: they are spontaneously wary of his movement toward Nothingness. In their admiration for the warrior can be measured the distance they impose between him and them. The warrior is thus condemned to be alone. This leaves him greatly dissatisfied, dissatisfied because he is unable to belong to any community other than the false community, the terrible community, of warriors who have only their solitude in common. Prestige, recognition, glory are less the prerogative of the warrior than the only form of relationship compatible with his solitude. His solitude is at once his salvation and his damnation.

The Warrior is a figure of anxiety and devastation. Because he isn’t present, is only for-death, his immanence has become miserable, and he knows it. He has never gotten used to the world, so he has no attachment to it; he awaits its end. But there is also a tenderness, even a gentleness about the warrior, which is this silence, this half-presence. If he isn’t present, it is often because otherwise he would only drag those around him into the abyss. That is how the warrior loves: by preserving others from the death he has at heart. Instead of the company of others, he thus often prefers to be alone, and this is more out of kindness than disgust. Or else he joins the grief-stricken pack of warriors who watch each other slide one by one towards death. Because such is their inclination.

In a sense, the society to which the warrior belongs cannot help but distrust him. It doesn’t exclude him nor really include him; it excludes him through its inclusion and includes him through its exclusion. The ground of their mutual understanding is recognition. In according him prestige society keeps the warrior at a distance, attaching itself to him and by the same token condemning him…”

A Train at Sunset

As the train rattles through the countryside I look out upon the fields of green and the purple mountains off in the distance. My mind takes in the beauty of this ancient feeling place. As the sun prepares to set the sky shimmers with red, pink, purple and blue. We slowly roll up to a farm in which an old man, lean yet sturdy, puts down his hoe and rests it against his shoulder. He looks up at the train and wipes his brow, and from under his hat you can see a slight reflection of his eyes as they catch the sight of the train. He raises his hand and starts to wave at the train. My mind begins to wonder, what is this old man waving at? Am I the only one who sees this? Is he waving at me?

            His hand moves slowly back and forth as if he sees someone he knows. Perhaps a child on the train waving at him, or maybe a loved one who will be getting off at the next stop. Maybe danger lies ahead and like a grim reaper he is bidding us farewell from this plane of existence, or maybe just me. The old man continues to wave expressionless as the train rolls by. Perhaps he waves at all the trains. Like a child seeing a train, running next to it waving at the conductor, hoping for a whistle. Has this man lived here his whole life? Digging in the field, waving at passing trains. His old eyes have seen much, seen many passing trains, some with people on it, some with cargo. Does he wave at the trains with no one on them, or does he hope for someone to see him and wave back, to remember him. Is he alone? When war saw this land he was a young man. Did he fight? Did he hide? Did he lose his family?

            I open my eyes and look out the window to the fields of green and purple mountains in the far distance. I look for the waving old man but cannot find him. Was I asleep and dreaming? It felt so real. Perhaps he was a figment of my imagination. As the train rounds the bend I look out and see the old man standing there, but this time he is not waving he just stares, holding the hoe staring at the train, staring at me.