Poetry & Prose

Jay’s Poetry, Lyrics & Prose

To Open Twentysomethings

Jay Leonard Schwartz Dadaism, Occupy Karma, Poetry & Prose , , , , , , ,

'Dada Youth TV' by Jay Schwartz - @Jschhwartz63

Dear Twentysomethings,

Stop worshiping 30-40somethings who are desperately trying to act like they are still 20somethings but who are managed by 50-60somethings who are forever stuck in middle-management and who are being paid by 70-80somethings to distract you until you grow old enough to get sucked into their system and a world which they continue to control.

It’s your life and your world. You can take control of both but only with:
#OpenBorders
#OpenMarkets
#OpenSource
#OpenData
#OpenSociety
#OpenGovernment
#OpenPockets
#OpenHearts
#OpenMinds
#OpenLove

#NoRulez except one: there are no exceptions.

PS: For a new word order, resistance is not futile; it’s just life.
Do something with it.
Call it your own.
Or call it ‘Dada Youth TV’ if you like.
Words.

Substitute Sales

Jay Leonard Schwartz Dadaism, Poetry & Prose , , , , ,
'Dada Sale' - Jay Schwarts
‘Dada Sales’ – Jay Schwartz

“Substitute Sales”

I have no peace of mind.
I have no piece of mine.
I have no peace of mine.
Substitute rooms for sale …

My dreams have become bothersome,
both in fact and in fiction.
They betray me with the truth;
a false reality I denied long ago.
Substitute coffee for sale …

And what am I to think of love?
The most loving remains unloved.
The zealot slowly bleeds to death
of ruptured rapture.
Substitute hearts for sale …

There is chaos in the world.
You know it. I know it.
We like to think saner heads will prevail.
Bullshit.
Substitute moons for sale …

Everything must go.
All sales are final.

Sol But No Rhythm

Jay Leonard Schwartz Poetry & Prose , , , ,

Snow Jaywalking
“Sol But No Rhythm”

For the first time in months, I sat on my balcony,
in my woolen clothes, and drank in the Sun.
Sol … but no rhythm …

Please understand,
I am NOT patient; I am stubborn.
Please don’t confuse my smile for my defense mechanism.
An inner storm always rages; it is a force of nature.
I cannot control it … but it is who I am.
And yet, I am too stupid stubborn to come to terms with it.

So I think to myself …
“why hide when you can simply masquerade?”

Forever the cat, dreaming he was a dog.
Forever the dancing baton in a requiem.
Forever an undressed window looking out into the foreign.
Curtain-less.
Shameless.

Soul but no rhythm.
Poisoned by white tempo …
with increasingly fading vision …
and the buzz of white noise in my ears.
Not even sure when my heart skips a beat or two,
but surely it must …
Death, always advancing, never seeking an element of surprise.
And me?
Too stubborn to accept the calm before the storm.

A misappropriated cliché:
That which doesn’t harm you, kills you.

Soul … but no rhythm …
Why aren’t I Miles Davis?
A better question yet …
Why aren’t I Jay Schwartz?

Each Day A Choice

Jay Leonard Schwartz Poetry & Prose , , , ,

Dada Goddess - Dada Venduza

Each day … we have the choice.
Each day, we have the choice to reject hate and bigotry in our lives.
Each day …

Each day … we have the choice.
Each day, we have the choice to reject those who spread, tolerate, condone and refuse to deny hate and bigotry.
Each day …

Each day … we have the choice.
Each day, we have the choice to justify the idea that we are ‘human’, not animals and certainly not sheep, chicken or parrots.
Each day …

Each day … we have the choice.
Each day, we have the choice to be thankful for our humanity.
Each day …

Each day … we have the choice.
Each day, we have the choice to prove who we really are.
Each day …

Each day … we have the choice.
Each day … we have the choice to fail as humans.
Many do … Don’t be one of them.

Each day … the choice is yours.

Dada Abstentia: In Trump We Bust

Jay Leonard Schwartz Dadaism, Poetry & Prose, Uncategorized , , , ,

Dada Trump Abstentia (by Jay Schwartz(

You crazy white girl for Africa!
You screaming banshee from Attica!
Soothing words of Seneca?
Check your mind in abstentia!

We’ve got the makings of utopia!
We’d rather build fucking dystopia!
We will not tolerate differentia!
We check our minds in abstentia!

We want a cultural Siberia!
We want to worship Wikipedia!
We want to burn encyclopedias!
We check our minds in abstentia!

We want to cultivate fantasia!
We want historical dementia!
We want to liberate our labia!
We check our minds in abstentia!

We want to castrate nymphomania!
We want to censor genitalia!
We celebrate schizophrenia!
We check our minds in abstentia!

We check our minds in abstentia!
We check our minds in abstentia!
We check our minds in abstentia!
We check our minds in abstentia!

(And the sheep say …)
Vote For Trump!
Vote For Trump!
(And the sheep say …)
Baa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-h!
(And the sheep say …)
Baa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-h!

Note: And remember kiddies, #Imwithher and #Donaldtrumpisabellend!

WATCH THE VIDEO!

‘Trump Abstentia’
Music & Lyrics by Jay Leonard Schwartz (ASCAP)
Published ELTzone Records (ASCAP)
Performed live by ‘The Transmystic Blues Sniffers’
Video produced & created by: Jay Schwartz (Dada Bloq Productions)

The Bridge Is Still Out

Jay Leonard Schwartz Poetry & Prose, Uncategorized
Dada Bridge
Dada Bridge – (Jay Schwartz)

The bridge is still out.
The gap remains.
The water rages below, like my blood.
I graciously wait, impatiently.

Maybe, I think, I ought to save my burning gas …
but my engine won’t quit.
I wonder if I should jump this bridge to reach the other side.
Can I make it or will I fail, falling into the liquid abyss?

Did I see you wave from the other side?
So close it seems to touch you …
but so far is the uncertain distance, I worry.
My heart has a tortured mind of its own.
It tries to scratch and claw its way out of my chest.
It propels itself into my throat and I have to swallow it down to breath again.

The engine finally sputters and chokes.
Chicken shit.
I return home alone.
The bridge is still out.
The gap remains.

Summer’s Sigh Through The Finger Glass

Jay Leonard Schwartz Dadaism, Poetry & Prose
Dada Through The Finger Glass
Dada Through The Finger Glass – (Jay Schwartz)

There’s an awkward space in time … when all words have been spoken.
This dead space should be filled with kisses … instead of misses.
Think quickly for something to say … or if the silence is appropriate.
The heart will go on beating … the conversation will resume.
Sigh.

The mouth breathes.
The breath quickens.
Quickly dart the eyes.
The eyes have it.
Twitch.

Nearness freezes time.
Closeness stymies thought.
The tongue trips; it would prefer to be doing other things.
The heart skips; it yearns for syncopation.
Gulp.

And you my dear …
And you my dear …
And you my dear …
Sigh.

I grow tired of looking out the window and seeing the still leaves.
A bead of sweat trickles down my chest, joining the stain on my t-shirt.
The warm humid airs labors to enter my mouth, getting stuck in my throat.
The head is burning.
I hate the summer.

And so, again, through the finger glass I will fly.
An aperitif of lunar-sobriety imbibe.
Sigh.
I hate the summer.

 

Let The Word

Jay Leonard Schwartz Poetry & Prose
Cork-Board-Fiasco-90.JPG
Cork Board Fiasco (Jay Schwartz)

Let the eyes speak volumes, when the mouth bites the tongue.
Let passion be channeled, but never put on hold.
Let go, when the mind says wait.
Let the future be now and the past be the past.
Let fear fuel the frenzy … not a pregnant pause.
Let’s stop pretending.
Let … is just a word; let it be just that.
The rest is up to you.
Let’s begin.
No more words.

 

 

 

 

The Call Center for Existential Obscenities

Jay Leonard Schwartz Dadaism, Poetry & Prose, Uncategorized , , ,

Dada Obscenity - Jay Schwartz

You have reached the ‘Call Center for Existential Obscenities’.
Please hold.

When only the obscene can be seen, taboo fears require puritan counter-measures.
Indifference fuels the irrational and the self-absorbed.
The helpless mutates into a victim of necrotic tendencies and can no longer transmute.
– If you would like to ‘call for help’, please stay on the line. Continue reading →

Aubade for Forced Poverty

Jay Leonard Schwartz Poetry & Prose , , ,

homeless

‘Aubade for Forced Poverty’

Force me into ‘the red’ …
Force me to beg ….
Force me to work ‘black’…
Force me into the roofless darkness …
Force me to agree to the financially irrational …
Force me to ‘human slavery’ …
Force me to turn ‘enemy of the state’ …
Force me to foster hate …

Force me to ‘cancer of the mind’ …
Force me to leave all behind …
Force me to starve …
Force me to roll over and play dead …
Force me to the ‘no loitering’ corner …
Force me to a vicious circle of forced poverty …
Force me to ‘no way out’ …

Force me to leave my home …
Force me to eat my bones …
Force me to pay false debt …
Force from me my bread …

Force me to lose sight …
Force me to ‘plight’ …
Force me to see you turn your eyes away …
Force me to lose faith …
Force me to sing a self-composed requiem with no ending …
Force me to hear no voice from heaven …

AND THEN the bank says to the client …
“We are ONLY responsible to the tax office, not you” …

Force me to leave dehumanized and empty-handed …
Greek Government
Clique Government
Reek Government

Dada Dentistry: Stereoscopic Trans-Dental Meditation

Jay Leonard Schwartz Dadaism, Poetry & Prose , , , ,

Dada Occlusion - Jay Schwartz

Stereoscopic Trans-dental meditation is  …
what happens when you drill into both sides of my mouth; life bites; art bites back.

My art becomes a temper-tantrum.
Clueless observations make for subjective guess-work.
Our ethics have been perverted by environmental occlusion.
The economics of our societies lead to psycho-dental trepidation.
Requiring an anti-inflammatory, life goes on.

But MEANwhile …
The hipster takes refuge in subliminal advertising.
The avant-garde spit new life into prunes.
Fashion-martyrs have become functionally obsolescent.
The law is lewd.
The lascivious are saints.
The humanist is old enough to care less.
The artist no longer watches TV.
The muse sleeps at the office.

A senile poodle defecates in room full of bibles.
The hierophant beats the dog with a mop.
The Antichrist is a rube.
The harmonica playing flautist is flayed alive.
Death has become a born-again chocoholic.

The truly political have been prefabricated.
The conservative eats a hidden taco and revises history for attention.
The liberal’s heart bleeds out … again.
The anarchist is a racist.

The hurried are prodded to wait.
The content are forced to want.
The cultured cultivate no pearls.
The elite munch on champagne flutes and sleep naked on canapes.
The poor digest their worries.
The immigrant is a small-world-traveler.
The toothless smiles the most.

No one knows the truly retarded
… but everyone has an opinion.

Do you know me the way I know you?
Probably not; you hardly know me.
Life goes on.

And in the END …
The loved and loving wait for the departed beloved.
Art regurgitates what nature can’t stomach.
The hierophant is dead.
God save the queen.
Everyone is an American.
Daedalus was not a dadaist, nor was he a dentist.

[Subliminal Advertising: Only Dada Venduza can bring a SMiLE.]

Vagaries Of The Moment

Jay Leonard Schwartz Dadaism, Poetry & Prose , , ,

'Under A Dada Sun' by Jay Schwartz‘Vagaries Of The Moment’

A moment in time; a moment in the Sun; a moment with you.
Go ahead and take a moment and collect yourself.
It’s all good.

Vagaries live in the moment, along with ‘chance’. In fact, we chance upon them every now and then, but usually miss the point as we get sidetracked by the disorientating sensation.

From moment to moment, there is nothing, only transition – and transition only takes a second. You can’t live in the second, but you can live in the moment. You can ‘enjoy the moment’, but how often do we groan and grimace when told ‘it will only take a second’ or ‘I’ll be done in a second’? The ever-illusive second never comes, does it? Blink and you miss it. Living a life ‘from moment to moment’ is much more rewarding than trying to ‘hold on a for a second’.

But what of the ambitious that wait all their lives for ‘their moment’ to come?
And what of all those who find themselves ‘lost in the moment’?

Yes, yes, the vagaries of the moment; I’ll explain in a moment, it will only take a second. Well … isn’t this awkward?

Dadaism is a lot like that.

Seance For An E-Ghost

Jay Leonard Schwartz Poetry & Prose , , , ,

Ballet_de_la_nuit_1653Seance For An E-Ghost

Created in a digital moment …
Here and then gone …
Errant misgivings …
Reaching for what was …
Realizing you’re gone and have left nothing …
I wonder now what happened …
Sighing, longing for the presence perhaps taken for granted …

Time passes obviously …
An ache bellows for words not yet read …
Yearning desperately for fragments of short-term memories …
Lord, I am dazed and confused …
Oh, how I miss you …
Return.

Wherever your are … I hope you are rusting in peace …

Continue reading →

Dada Gothic: Accommodating Commodes

Jay Leonard Schwartz Dadaism, Occupy Karma, Poetry & Prose , , , ,

Dada GothicAccommodating Commodes

Oh Accommodating Commodes…
My, how you have reconciled your fate.
Conditioned to forgive and forget
so that you may be visited again by bum dignitaries
and crowned with their indignities.

Where is your individuality?
– long ago flushed out and smothered
with the loose vowels of holy rhetoric
by those up on high …

Do you take heart in knowing that at the tail end of your existence
you will have dutifully served your function …
without cracking under the excretion of your karma?

What is this righteousness you feel
in extending a policy of laissez-faire to the derrière?
Perhaps you fancy yourself a grand pedal-stool of sorts …
a throne in the company of the elite …
… a noble, yet humble, reflecting pool to moonbeams?

Oh accommodating commodes …
Alas, there is no virtue in self-repression.
And in the end, … I must confess …
you are just full of crap.

Polly’s Cadence (In Dada Flat)

Jay Leonard Schwartz Dadaism, Poetry & Prose , , , ,

'Parrot Dada' by Jay SchwartzPolly’s Cadence (In Dada Flat)

“Polly wants a cracker!”

A call is made.

You wait for a response.

I comply in earnest.

Behind the wool, you gloat blindly. 

Knowing enough words to nod along, I do so … knowingly knowing I know nothing. 

Point Counterpoint. A methodological approach to string theory resolves to the root of us all. Klimakatastrophe … deservingly so

You want dogma, a rationale of semiotic obedience.

A feathered response is in order:

There are no more prayers, only the chanting of reverberating sounds in the wild; the vibrations that ricochet off your sensitivities … forcing you to move.

You want belief, perhaps in distended words unspoken.

Yet, I have only the faith of habit found in sustained accidentals and enharmonic phonemes … and wings to sing of.

And oh how I’ll sing one day, despite your efforts to make me talk.

Continue reading →

The March Of The Immoral Compass

Jay Leonard Schwartz Occupy Karma, Poetry & Prose , , , ,

'Color War Rally' by Jay SchwartzThe March Of The Immoral Compass

Onward to the march she came to share solidarity,

eventually to be burned by another’s insincerity.

She fled, her brain inflamed;

the scene, it was insane.

Twas better for her to defy her moral compass, I confess,

than choke on the evening’s immoral and errant excess.

 

Oh, but what she saw and sensed …

Oh, what she beheld that made no sense:

Loons, full moons and fire …

… a city lead to mire:

Continue reading →

A Phoenix Imploding

Jay Leonard Schwartz Poetry & Prose , , , , , , ,

Prodigy-InfernoA Phoenix Imploding

Fanning the flames of a prodigy’s inferno, self-pity looks on as art burns.

Anger consumes reason.

Bitterness ignites the mind-set.

 

Consumed with the rage over jilted aspirations …

The eye stutters …

The tongue is blind …

Speaking in volumes of disdain, spitting dissension.

 

Wracked with spasmodic thoughts on unfinished words.

Impotent intentions char on slow burn.

Wisps of smoldering passions dissolve into ‘misforgivings’.

A primal scream of guttural inflammation belches forth raw talent.

“Such a waste” cries a vanishing muse …

 

Choking on bile …

Lashing out in all directions …

Twisting, jerking, shrieking, mourning the living and grieving over stillborn dreams.

A phoenix imploding.

 

Why so much anger?

The will to cause such pain.

Too busy blaming ancestral arsonists to reach for a glass of water.

Choosing instead to smother candescence with incendiary fury.

Burn that ‘self-loathing’ down …

……………………………………………………………………

 

Suggested Viewing

 

Suggested Reading

 

Musically Yours

Jay Leonard Schwartz Poetry & Prose , , , , , , , , , ,

Abstract Art by Naomi JohnsonMusically Yours

There are times when there is vision in the music

… but not when the music itself presents a vision

… or is even visionary itself.

Oh say can’t you see that some chords unravel and some scales are unbalanced?

Have you ever met an arpeggio that unfolded into a non-linear arrangement of an unsequenced rhythm?

I have … and was seduced by it … willingly.

Continue reading →

The I In Me They Never Bothered With

Jay Leonard Schwartz Defying Expectations, Poetry & Prose , , , , , , , ,

The I In Me They Never Bothered With

 They see my gender.

They see my color.

They see the clothes I wear.

But …

They want to know my ‘likes’.

They want to know my contacts.

They want to know my religion.

They want to know my income.

They want to know my sexual preference.

They want to know my political affiliation.

They want to know my citizenship.

They want to know my heritage.

They want to know my family and lineage.

They want to know my genetic code.

They want my body.

They want my soul.

They want my spirit.

They want my blood.

They want my conformity.

But …

They don’t want my mind.

And they never once even ask my name.

Continue reading →

Dancing On Broken Toes

Jay Leonard Schwartz Poetry & Prose, Uncategorized , , , ,

Dancing On Broken Toes

 

How easily do our airy flights of fancy escape the gravity of our mundane lives.

We reach with dreams of fickle laced lightness for that which lies beyond our corporeal grasp.

The ‘what ifs’ come with practice, spring-boarding from disillusion and delusion.

We hang ourselves on a whim, a promise, a commitment … a figment of our imagination.

We dance. Our toes break.

Continue reading →