Or, On Politics & Kanye West
Or, Some rambling before I leave for a few months
Or, whatever, shits stupid and nobody cares
What up, Fam?
What up, Fam?
Ponder with me, if you will,
Those distant cousins who crafted language.
To emerge, erect and erect from
The shadows, the lack, the before,
Into the mistakes of Eve. Imagine
The poetry rolling through
Hills of tongues, fjords of teeth,
Just to taste it and birth bird song.
Imagine how the moon conspired
To create romance and lust,
The Sun spawning wonder and the guteral sound of art,
Doubt oozing out of the swollen snakebite
And the venomous glee in being
The smith of words just to hurt.
Ponder the creation of song and wails,
The utterance of a messiah and the horns of Jericho,
The white horse and death rattle.
“I’ll take an extra large serving of nihilism, reality checks, and that good good music, por favor.”
“And write a joke on the box too.”
I used to be an adorable, hairy hippy who stomped around on lysergic acid diethylamide drinking stolen heineken kegs and sticking it to the man while bluegrass jam bands serenaded my mates into my lair. Tonight I cried when this song came on my shuffled playlist and reminded me of who I am supposed to be. I’ll be myself again, I promise.
In the meantime, Thanks Obama.
Picture Audrey Hepburn with a chain and a chopper.
If Orson Welles directed “The Wire” this would be the opening theme.
The White Owl lays down some Minnesota Nice for ya.
They just don’t make em like this anymore, folks.
The rhythmic pounding of the Pacific’s lunar fingers calls to me each day. Whether these sirens of L.A. are calling me there or warning me to stay in the Northwest’s rainy blanket I’m Uncertain.