Both after midnight
One is a signal
The other for five dollars
Molly Molly get your jollies
Frisky midnight friends
Pages curl in soggy dreams
Hold my weight in sheets
Well after midnight
And one is the signal.
And if I was caught running
Your wisp would rush my toes
Curling under and in between
To help my source be greater.
You’d call out loud
You’d stop me quick
You’d be my imprint, washed away,
Sea shells, sand dollars, soft glass broken.
And in your fleeting memory –
In my test upon your banks!
Forever cycle into rhythm,
Ebb and flow shall now begin.
Purge soul from desire,
Carry my night:
Left lane right lane.
I curve your heart
Around crescent moon
At the feet of my wisdom;
Biting into a Caesar brick
Closed around uninviting
A pale ghost runs around
The neighborhood tonight.
Grasp at my turnpike.
Leave an overspent
Midnight dance and
Recoil in pure madness
Like a sesame seed bagel,
If I wasn’t a sorcerer
To make a call,
I’d hover gently around
Were squealing as night set.
Can my name
Become an icon
Dressed in black
Upon your wall?
Can a dollar get me beggars
At half past twelve?
And like a crawling rat
A hood makes my figurines
Into a sea of closed doors
That pacify each and every
Bond I’ve made
Through a long night:
Our political agendas are nauseating.
They’re stuffed so full of capital letters
That the underlying messages of our society –
Hell, even our cultures,
Are suffocated with exhaust stacks and bottom dollars.
If I could have dreamed up a Heathenistic Hell,
I’d put city roads and destruction for progress
Right at the top of that scorched list.
I’d decree land had suddenly become a commodity
We could sell simply because we had a gun that said we could.
Just like young adults unable to find their righteous paths,
Explicit lyrics contaminating the innocent minds,
My Hell would be a prescribed better way, mothers.
Did you feel my heart as it’s ripped out every single day
When land mines help fight swollen populations,
Planted in a war to help save lives?
War to not war! Fight fire with fire!
And in my Hell, in my political agenda I call my country,
I would give us hope, every.single.day.
We would wake up to the smell of progress
And desire to capture it in any way possible
So that it could be shared with anybody we knew.
We would mutually feel good about the loss of our trees,
Because our heads were buried so deep in our electricity
Where we were collectively dreaming about
Ways to continue our progress.
For my simple pleasure I’d have dandelions everywhere
As symbols of true health and prosperity.
I’d pull up my old lawn chair, warm beer in hand,
And watch as all the sinners pulled out their organic chemicals
To spray the evil yellow root to death.
On the cold days when there were no death machines
I’d read my botanical books and let the rain
Wash tears into my Hell.
For me this is the saddest thought of all,
Because in spite all my attempts to rectify ignorance,
I would be a black seed living in my own true Hell.
I would be a puppet, inspired to raise my voice
And told that I do mean something to this Hell.
There I’d be, red faced eating my poisoned earth,
Handed another blank Party card
And told why I should be excited.
Mimic my every cry
As I let you whistle low
I’m ready for the hunger
I’m ready for the feast
Left alone at the crossroad
Pack all filled with air
A dollar too much down
Dusty register’s golden crown
Felt hard in my left
Checked the other one again
Heard my freight-train-a-coming
Lookin the other way now
Long road comin hard
Off to another day
Felt the executioners tail
Felt the grip to mother-me
Ramblin rose staring at me
My eyes gone, going back understood
Creeking sleep covering me
Lurching stops frightening me
My bag and me settling in
Easy train rumbling on
Lost my voice miles ago
Keeping my whistle down low