| As another one sets sail, another one passes
|
| And it’s captains waving at captains waving at captains
|
| And some may pretend colonialism is over
|
| But they still cover the Earth in their same sorrows
|
| Perform old adages and bad anthems
|
| And scattered about
|
| They still spread the same foreign Germanic and Romance languages
|
| They don’t borrow something if they can take it now
|
| Maybe feed you a line about how bad it is while
|
| Reciting Biblical passages
|
| ‘til any recognizable memory vanishes
|
| And they send in a Jesuit army to claim the souls of so-called savages
|
| And for the rest of us under the thumb of an executive
|
| Like a remote-control missal at his desktop
|
| This despot plots sabotage. |
| We split into factions
|
| And I sing songs with the masses
|
| Fact is I’m the same part of the public they hold captive
|
| By the Fourth of July, we all stare into the night sky
|
| As another bright light flashes
|
| Another one extinguishes
|
| As another one passes
|
| The scene repeats itself ad infinitum
|
| And as another one sets sail, another one crashes
|
| The accident replays over and over again as it happens
|
| Because for us, the sky is always falling
|
| So we make our overtures to the captains
|
| Enumerate our causes
|
| Reduce ourselves into mega phone slogans and paper responses
|
| An anonymous poem wheat pasted onto a highway billboard
|
| Another message of love
|
| Lit up in the spotlight
|
| Looking out over the capital city
|
| I see a citadel swell with civil servants in the early morning
|
| They see the same
|
| From their tiny offices and yawn
|
| Some of them lose themselves in Word documents
|
| They’re exhausted, overworked, and nauseous
|
| They’re the polyps in the body politic
|
| And they pray to God that they may lay claim
|
| To any remaining water and oxygen. |
| Another one gone!
|
| Listen in on the nonsense
|
| As the intercom system cuts on and off again
|
| Stay calm, sip on coffee
|
| Cos in the tunnels under Washington
|
| It’s a rabbit hole that they could be all lost in
|
| And avoiding a malcontent audience
|
| And the television’s out of control
|
| Breeding these bloodthirsty spectators
|
| And I’m waiting for the day I’m in a conference room
|
| And I’m drowned out by the euphoria
|
| On a team of T14 lawyers
|
| In a state of paranoia
|
| And if attorneys are the high priests of American society
|
| Then I’m a just go ahead and join em for ya
|
| Fold each of my dreams in origami fashion
|
| And flatten em out for safekeeping in a folder for ya
|
| I’m outside on the peripheral
|
| I perform scenes in my week’s ritual
|
| I bang drums, bleed, sleep, dream my merits brief prove pivotal
|
| My timeline is ephemeral
|
| I’m full of loose particle and dark mineral
|
| I broadcast last words, break teeth, enunciate each syllable
|
| This place is known to welcome ghosts
|
| Chasing plagiarism in a sundress
|
| Who they themselves
|
| They tend to disappear
|
| Even camaraderie’s a contest
|
| In this place
|
| That’s known to welcome ghosts
|
| And they themselves
|
| They tend to disappear |