All along the watchtower,
the thief he kindly spoke.
that we will rob again.
We will keep our pockets thin.
We will no longer play victim
to this system of imprisonment-
our chisels and chains.
We will break free, from your coward’s bars.
We will fight, and we will win.
We will fight. We will die.
For our end is only the beginning.

All Along the Watchtower
many touch the globe.
Slings and arrows thrown by
friends and foes, who knows

Who is the biggest bully? Is it the billionaire,
or the one who throws stones,
or rips the clothes you wear,
throws the heaviest gauntlet
or lets the steady drown?

Who is Robin Hood, Brother John?
Who is anyone, do you really know anyone
In this town?

In the lost forest the nymphs drive red sports cars.
They sing for their supper, on all fours.
They drive to the supermarket superstore,
grab all the food that they can afford,
and waste just as much, if not more.

Drive in your convertible, Beverly Girl,
ignore the screaming, ignore the pain of
the outside world,

as the buildings burn
in a chemical swirl.

Just sit there looking pretty.
We owe you this earth.

We owe you the diligence of a digital birth.
Reborn and reblogged,
since death, the poor and the lonely
have reinvented themselves

in something with worth.
Or something much worse.
In lead shoes we travel this earth.
Some struggle for the right words,
some struggle for truth,

truth about themselves, the poet, their worth,
who wander lifeless in motion in an ever changing universe,
dangling their toes in a poem from so long ago,

Where is that little child who wrote to survive.
Where did he go?

Where is that smile, the one you lost so long ago?
The one that left you like they all do sometime soon.
The cinder block, the snow.
The rose in bloom, ink blot Rorschach test,
the illness catches fumes.
And I sit hear wondering where I went.

How far I have left to travel, and when if ever I’ll return.

All along the watchtower, the thief he kindly spoke,
that many hear among us, feel that life is but
A joke.

But you and I we’ve been through that, I remind myself every day.
That we have survived a flume of colors, just Rembrandt’s waste of Paint.


Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly.