...That chance to touch the beautiful—
perhaps brush it with your lips...
it's the august of all passions—
sheer agape all would wish.
That one might even kiss it—
though it's "reach" beyond one's "grasp"—
instills in us some hope perceived,
discounting protests gasped!
...See, then I'm less than bitter!
Song leavens stony hearts...
Still, you can PROVOKE me, friend,
and I'll take you quite apart!
...And YES, I will be charmless
when I eat your smirking face;
as I see it you’re the problem,
frankly ... a discredit to our race!
That'd be the human race,
that single race extant...
The race we call humanity.
That race of us existent...
Still...you make it hard to love you
where your ethics are despised,
where hypocrites, abounding,
thumping "bibles"—ooze and slide!
Where psychopaths among you
teach the least of us their fear
and then cobble legislation—
they've contrived—as profiteers.
...Too, I wouldn't change a "wit" nor "hair"
you'd gladly change on me.
I'd not restrict your freedoms
judging what you would, or be.
...But, you take that as your license
to impose your toxic will,
just impose psychotic filth!
Defending to a sullen death
your right to be a fink,
it's when I'm made against "the law,"
you'd try that tack, I think.
Then everything is YOUR way—
with "Jesus" in our schools.
The schools transmute to prisons,
and we live the *golden* rule.
And not that smarmy bromide re:
the "doing unto others",
but it's "he who has the gold who rules,"
is where you are, I'd gather.
... But for chance to touch the beauty
I'd be blinded by her light;
Her's just might be the face of God!
I suspect this is our right!
...And blowing off "you can't do that"
from persons tacking right—
they prosecute their bitterness—
I'll pay that price... alright?
For, light there is aplenty
when we see who burns with shame—
when we cop to the perception
who must lose so they can gain.
And the LIES to keep it going
so that we won't see the truth:
that jealous lords contrive stern rules,
but remain from them, aloof!
There's more than Clinton's penis
to the fabric of our lives.
There is more that could engage us,
and there's less we should despise!
The skies are filled with "glowing lights"!
They travel inner space!
Some just might be people,
but their provenance—what's their place?
It just may be they're not from here,
but we don't look—they disappear;
made ashamed to ask good questions,
so ridiculed, we make "retractions":
"No one's going to laugh at me"!
Unlike John Ford? You would be "free"...
And that's the secret: lacking courage!
Right or wrong protecting coinage;
like, dumping on those far from here
your toxic wastes... without a tear!
Resent it when you're finally told?
The message is then killed/controlled.
All your shame is drained from you
and splashed on those who cannot choose!
The market losing chunks of value?
Lost some savings, can't eat cashews?
Someone has it, rest assured,
it's stolen "fair and square," I've heard!
The market "burps" and loses "value"?
Someone wins... they've sold YOU out, though...
A "secret service" selling crack...
to school kids yet without the knack
for knowing when they're sacrificed...
on Corporate alters... "price is right"!
...Yeah, Ollie North could lie straight-faced
and earn my rage—profound distaste—
that, welling up with righteous bile—
the thousands that he harmed, defiled—
he gave the 'right' their ammunition,
"welfare cheats" the admonition.
"Let them all decay—attrition!"
...Would that I could force contrition!!
Yet, I will be touching beauty...
I've discovered in the fight!
I revel in revealing what
some truth shows with its light!
...And as bitter as I'm made to feel
or as angry as I get,
I'm happy that I'm blessed to find
what's real precludes all threat!
So you can call me "woo-woo"
and pretend I need a net;
I'm not the one who's lying
to himself, friend; you can bet!
I'm not the one regressing
to the dankness of my cave.
I'm not the one with unshod feet,
mere chattel, or a slave...
I'm not the one with bigotries...
happy others keep their knees...
so I can pray to concrete gods
who do my bidding, on my nod?
No! I'm the one who's had enough!
I'll spit right in your eye!
Most send me their protection, friend;
I soar... or glide... but fly!
You rasp I have no humor,
or that bitterness derides
whatever makes my message
give you lesions, welts, or hives!
No, some read my songs for pleasure,
some say they sing of love.
Some say they are inspired
by example, churlish one!
Some say that I have courage,
that I write the way "it is"—
Like Robert Crumb (cartoonist?),
but I "draw" where words don't miss.
Most say that they laugh with me—
blowing good beer through their nose—
some touch and share their own songs
or their haiku or their prose.
One said he hopes his kid grows up
to hear my kind of sound—
so, dismissed as paranoiac?
That dog won't hunt, I've found.
...Restore John Ford!