| You try to tell your feet to stay put
|
| But the sky keeps reining you in / stretching air thin
|
| So float / cloud-charged over the dead city
|
| Where steel people throw their hands up for what weather might bring
|
| And we are the twice-striking lightning
|
| Fighting for a return to flesh mode
|
| Without the culture-biting whitening
|
| Flying past the easy anomaly
|
| That traps most seekers with thoughts of colorblind teachers
|
| And infinitely attentive students: analogy
|
| It’s not that simple / it’s more simple and human
|
| Than numbers and tones
|
| People live in binary code
|
| And never get to three
|
| There’s no eye left to see
|
| I’m living post-free, post-me, sending unmarked gifts care of your ears,
|
| packaged-pre
|
| Catch us in a child’s cheek as smiles wrinkle time in hell
|
| And thrice we come crashing down in thunderous ovations of our own making
|
| — little kids covering their ears because the truth is a loud foreign noise bad
|
| men telling good boys about the dangers of kite-flying on a night such as this
|
| so they leave copper keys locked in hearts forbade exposure lest another male
|
| sense sensitivity on such an epic level —
|
| A feminine step / fairies skip between our heavens lost in unburdened bliss
|
| Not until you’re dead though and ready to scorch the earth you made your
|
| immoral bed on these past decades
|
| Blind the blind before they fall in skip
|
| Bleed for me and we’ll consider the application
|
| Hurt like her and we’ll acknowledge the fire
|
| Die like this, this, and this here
|
| Love learns to live burns and mistrust brief judgment from the sky
|
| It’s round as it seems / to drop a metaphor supreme
|
| And the whole world a simile for dream
|
| Meant to get foggy / shunning mental memory / too short-lived for what our
|
| bodies recall
|
| And what spirits are (still) called
|
| — it's waiting somewhere for all of us converting stuck feet to static charges
|
| in the stratosphere against the greater necropolitan area — a forward march —
|
| an all-out attack with war drums and battle lightnings storming globalized
|
| gates and stock-optioned automatons to win back young minds that have no idea
|
| of the power inside the space we’re spread amongst —
|
| Slice my tongue
|
| And let the rhymes drop down
|
| To stain the swords soft
|
| Crush my feet
|
| In this mindless stampede
|
| To stay stupid on the ground
|
| Tear out a floating heart
|
| And squeeze the juice
|
| Over party-purchased plastic flowers
|
| Because everyone needs to grow green
|
| And dry their eyes of shame
|
| And we are the twice-striking lightning
|
| Beating the drum
|
| That brings
|
| The rain |