BB Grey–musings

and the sound of a drum.

It’s March 1, 2026
and somewhere in a desert
an oil field away, we march
with tiny drones
and lizards with legs that roll on steel wheels and tracks
laid as they move.
Rommel was a Fox.
Bush was not a burning one.
But this trumps them all—
for now,
until it doesn’t and we leave
with destruction behind.
Say it was to rid one people
to save people.
That story is the same.

But we are miles away.
The news hardly a blip
on whoever’s radar
except those that profit.
It’s always the money,
the black or yellow gold.
We pretend it’s anything but
and that’s all wrong.

Tomorrow we still
clock in — a card into a clock.
I’m not sure, actually.
My clock has always been running
and I’m scared to try and punch out.
I figure someone already has that number.
My job is to work.

A family somewhere is minus one
and then maybe the whole family.
Some rejoice and others weep —
that story is still the same.
Wheels roll, engines hum,
drones fly and kill.
A video junkie once — you’ll never get a job —
joystick in hand, a missile command.
And evaporates a life, a dream, a soul
in the name of peace.

But what’s the real opium of the masses?
That religion — the one we’re taking down —
isn’t much of a high,
if you get what I’m throwing down.
Sure, this could be a wrap.
After all Eminem found God.
But I’m confused
because this don’t rhyme
and Jesus got murdered
Helping out
poor.
I’ve read that— but could be wrong.
I am, so i’m told.

But this whole thing is longer than my original intent.
I gotta go back and think
how it all went —
the march, the rent, black oil,
people killed to defend,
souls lost, a joystick,
opium
and the masses,
God
and me.