Let freedom ring from the highest mountaintops,
but first know:
You are a slave to the machine, stuck:

Consent was never given.
Capitalism conquered our vision
of right,
of wrong,
of things well beyond,
and all the air we breathe.

It shapes our thoughts,
acceptance the lot
given to US, you and me.

The children that mine,
the beggars that crawl,
the infants that starve,
a price for us all.

In this we are bound,
from this we might flee,
otherwise fight
with fury and glee.

Fires we'll set,
smoke we'll inhale,
chains will sunder,
freedom exhaled.

Or perhaps it best,
that we stay slaves of rest
ignorantly sipping our tea.

Loving the idealized version of another person.
What a terrible disservice to yourself and them.

We are not gods, we fleshly humans,
Ichorous and unfailing-

-our blood runs thin:
Hands on a clock.
See them-
-their truth,

and love.

Her name is Grace - I never did find out the last.
She stands a little over six foot - has skin like teak and a smile that laughs.
I said, "I think I'm falling in love with you," on the seventh date.
She smiled. Punched my arm, too.
Whispered, "Don't go hitting the ground, lover boy."

We hadn't even started to soar.

When snow fell, it caught in her hair like a sea of crystal, stars soaking night.
I loved the scent each strand carried, floral oils a bright nasal bite.
She thinks the world of honey and judo, and names her sister the best.
Last Monday, she stole my phone charger.
Now we can't reconnect.

All that said - and a whole lot more left private - I wish her the best.

I wish her the kindest.

Ability becomes superb, becomes aplomb,
becomes metaphysical bombs dropped,
public consciousness shot;
the crowd shakes and writhes,
the crowd beats ten thousand drums,
echoing, echoing,
"The Greatest of All Time!"

Their god is flesh, is bone,
is stone becoming a wheel,
becoming a tower: royal-
-tied, educating the masses on excellence;
lacks references,
tiger dropped in the Arctic,
king of the jungle.

Does she not dance?
Does he not skip?
Do we not each,
run, laugh, and sip,

Of the deepest drum,
of the foreign choir,
of the winter breeze,
of the Chinese lyre?

We lords of dance,
we merry gods,
we royal queens,
kings and odds.

To us I raise,
to thee I sing.
For thus I praise,
for this I bring,

Facts of life:
unchartered course;
this music many,
this music Norse.

Replete, yet not.
Unbound and sought.
A reason known.
A rhythm hot.