I have something to say
But you go ahead and say it for me
So I get to smile wild and free
In light of a blessed young day.
Sometimes you describe my experience the best
Living in the vagrant grainfed West
In the line of our past selves’ fire
Sharing our bodies but not for hire.
I don't need cash to make me commit.
In fact I can do better without
When by and by my flooding flow is allowed to spout.
My collection of history is confined to a emergency rack
If not a pack, if not my back
At last reduced to a sweet deadly lack.
At least we can still smell our way home,
Where all our genetic, hermetic, omni-aesthetic memories are stored
In the unfolding form of an open-legged Lord,
Like our sacrament that glows because it has to end
Except there's always a rule or two to bend
As long as we're scared of surviving our own men.
I need another’s deeds in advance to spend
My children that don't get said soon will be penned.
The sacred vulnerability is ours to lend
In need of another's deeds with which to fend
Off the shadow I perceive chasing my friends
Can't see what it solves for the soul to rend,
Involved fully in the energy of present.
Without the public health induced lashing of peasants,
Our revolution’s streamed live on perpetual rerun
By the timebinded ones whose viewing’s just begun
But of all each other's totems we can't keep track
When belief in our energy’s still subject to sack.
These dry thunderstorms transmute the forms of our norms
Still breeding the skin to keep us warm
By retreating before our feathers were shorn.
Some places feel weird when first premiered
But soon in the masses that defensively jeered
Hold it dear as their own oldest newborn baby
And stop writing in the explanations of maybe.
It's hot, dry, dark, and bolting
With this wind the clouds appear to be molting.
No other mother needs consulting
And we can spread our seed without revolting
No other colored pair of wings
Can change the way we sing.
The ugly truth, out of this corner we've been dared
Rubber face snaps from the care we have to share.
Nutrition spread so thin our horizon’s been scared
By ghosts of the Holy Spirit our ancestors ensnared.
Our mental crow’s nest to make up and out time’s distant shore.
The good old me’s cut down and cooked rare
Because they couldn't look and see a taste quite so fair.
Someday I'll erect and get out of my head
Once the shitposters stop wanting me dead.