To Open Twentysomethings

'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.

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Substitute Sales

'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

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

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

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

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

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.